My name is Yaya, which is my nickname. As for what my nickname is? I don’t know very well.
Ever since I was two years old, hiding under the bed and witnessing my mother lying dead in a pool of blood, no one has called me by my name.
In my limited life, in my impression, as the murderer of my mother, my father who drank all day long only called me by my nickname Yaya.
Originally, I lived in a harmonious family of three. My father ran a wax museum. He was usually a bit reticent, but he would definitely make time to play with me when I got home.
My mother is a housewife, a very gentle person, and very friendly to everyone.
I always thought that our family of three would live happily forever.
Until that day, my father came home with a gloomy face, took my mother directly into the bedroom, and locked the door.
In the bedroom, I could only hear my father's roar, the sound of heavy objects falling to the ground, and of course my mother's sobbing.
That night, my father seemed crazy. I had never seen him show such a crazy side before. It was like he had turned into a stranger. Even the way he looked at me was cold, and when he slammed the door
Before leaving, I was so uneasy that I didn't dare to call him.
Since that day, the atmosphere at home has changed.
My father rarely goes home and stays overnight in the wax museum. The gentle and calm smile on my mother's face has disappeared. Most of the time, she sits alone in silence. Only when she faces me will she occasionally show a smile.
This smile is a little bitter.
I also often ask my mother, when will my father come back to play with me?
Mom said that after some time, when Dad has completely calmed down and figured it out, he will come back to play with me.
I have always believed in it and looked forward to that day coming soon.
But that day became the beginning of my nightmare.
That day was my father's birthday. My mother specially cooked a table of dishes and called my father to come home.
I also put on my favorite white princess dress and hid under the bed holding the carefully prepared birthday gift for my father, hoping to give him a big surprise.
That day, it was seven o'clock in the evening, and just when I was hiding under the bed and about to fall asleep, my father came back.
I don't know what my mother and father said, but they suddenly started arguing loudly.
After that, my mother probably wanted to go into the bedroom and call me out, but before she could call me, I heard my mother scream sadly, and then she fell heavily to the ground, her face facing me under the bed, her lips
He was still moving slightly, as if he wanted to say something.
I could only vaguely hear her saying "Run". After that, she became motionless, but her eyes were still staring at me.
After a while, I seemed to hear my father leaving the house in a panic.
I crawled out from under the bed, sat down next to my mother, and cried to her, but she didn't move. Only red blood kept flowing out from the wound on her back, staining my white princess dress.
It turned into a gorgeous blood red color.
That night, I was tired from crying and finally fell asleep lying on my mother's body.
The next morning, my father came back again. He woke me up from a pool of blood and asked me what was going on.
I knew very well in my heart that my father killed my mother, but I really didn’t know what to do. I could only cry, and I could only cry and pretend not to know anything.
That night, my father took advantage of the darkness to transport my mother's body out.
About a week later, my father took me to the wax museum, pointed to a wax figure and said this was my mother. He also said that this way, she would no longer be able to betray him and could be with him forever.
Time flies, and three years pass by in a hurry.
In the past three years, except for the first period, my father was still normal, but he became more and more fond of drinking. He liked to smash things when he was drunk, and he even beat me desperately on several occasions.
I really don’t know what I did wrong. Has my father already learned the truth that I witnessed him murdering my mother?
Just like this, another three months passed. This day is my birthday. In the first two birthdays, only my father was with me. He only bought me a symbolic cake, but I was already very satisfied.
.
Sometimes I think, it would be great if my father could treat me like he treats me every day on my birthday.
Unfortunately, this can only be my wishful thinking.
On my fifth birthday, my father bought me another piece of my favorite chocolate cake, and also gave me a pair of colored crayons.
I was so happy. This was the first time I received a gift from my father in three years. I cried at that moment, with tears of happiness on my face.
In front of my father, I drew a picture with the colored crayons he gave me. In the picture, it is our home, with me, my father, and my mother...
I gave this painting to my father, and he took it expressionlessly and stared at the painting blankly.
All night, he held this painting and drank alone, sometimes mumbling to himself, sometimes crying and laughing, and the whole person was a little hysterical.
I was very scared, so after finishing the cake, I carried the box of crayons back to the house.
I didn't dare to sleep. My father's abnormal behavior brought back memories that had faded long ago. It was a scene I didn't want to recall the most.
I hugged the box of crayons and crawled directly under the bed. It seemed that only here could bring me a sense of security.
Just like that, before I knew it, I fell asleep under the bed.
In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a chill. In a daze, I suddenly saw a pair of eyes with countless bloodshot eyes staring straight at me in the darkness.
What kind of eyes are those?
I can't describe it!
I only know that the owner of these eyes is my father. He is lying on the ground and just keeps staring at me. I don’t know how long he has been staring at me.
I was so frightened that I didn't even dare to make a sound.
When my father saw that I was awake, he suddenly waved to me very gently and told me to come out quickly, saying that the ground was cold and I might catch a cold.
Without doubting his presence, I held the box of crayons in one hand and slowly crawled out from under the bed.
I was picked up by my father, who helped me tidy up my hair and flicked the dust off my white princess dress.
Suddenly, suddenly, my father said calmly: "That night three years ago, you were also hiding under the bed, right? You should have seen how your mother died, right?"
"Why did you keep hiding it from me? Why did you lie to me that you didn't know anything?"
"Do you want me to let my guard down so I can avenge your mother?"
The look on my father's face suddenly became very strange, and his face became ferocious and terrifying, like a monster in a fairy tale.
I watched my father take out a fruit knife from behind, and watched helplessly as he stabbed the knife into my body. The blood instantly stained my white princess dress red. It was the hot blood in my body.
I was crying, I was shouting that it hurt, but my father ignored me and mechanically stabbed the fruit knife into my body again and again.
My body temperature is gradually lowering, but not faster than my heart is getting cold.
I asked silently over and over again, why did you do this to me? What did I do wrong?
My last remaining memory is on the box of crayons that fell from my hand and spread out on the ground, stained with my blood...