我的伤疤故事
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“Every scar has a story，” people say. A glimpse of those blemishes in my legs will help you to refute this argument.1 I am prone to physical scars which actually offer me nothing to brag about， since most of them were left from mosquito bites.2 I believe， however， every hurt will leave a scar， a body scar or even worse， a soul scar.
With penitence and prayer for forgiveness， I hereby share my scar story.3 It is not a story of me， but a story about how I caused hurt， leaving a scar here， in my own heart and a scar there， in his heart.
“How dare you？ I’m fed up with you doing this！”My anger finally burst out4 when my son refused to go to the painting classes for the third time that day， after I believed that I had talked him over his reluctance earlier. He responded with nothing but an attitude of rolling his eyes at me. And it was this unexplained， unanticipated bold spirit of defiance that escalated my fury and blurred my sober mind.5 To resume my authority， I played bitter sarcasm， “OK， if you wanna be a good-for-nothing， then move your butt back to bed for that useless sleep.”6 It turned out that my strategy was a total disaster. Seemingly， he took it willingly. I lost complete control of my temper. Bang！ Bang！ Bang！ I made a dart and spanked at him.7 “I pay for your food， your drink， your clothes and work hard every day to pay for the best education I can afford for you. This is how you pay me back？” I screamed at the top of my lungs8. Unexpectedly， he didn’t cry or talk back to me. There was something like a scare and terror in his eyes. Shortly， he responded in silence with a strange look， a look of helplessness that I had never seen before. This wasn’t the first time I had cried out the malicious9 screams and curses at him. He used to wail10 violently and beg me to pardon him. The innocence shining in his big round eyes would beat that hottempered monster in me away in the end. But this time…
“You are such a disgrace11. Bad boy！ Shame on you. I am sick of all of it！” I was doing another bombard12 of cries and curses when my elder sister came visiting us to check if we were okay. He jumped right out of bed as soon as he heard his aunt to welcome her， as if he hadn’t noticed that I was bitterly angry. At the sight of the flare-up13 of tension between us， my sister offered him a trip to her place. When I used to be crotchety14， my son would always stay for me to cool down. But this offer， he took with a light heart and a relief. “Enough！ Get out of my house！ You are not my boy anymore！” My yelling had reached the farthest and I had mixed feelings.
They left， abandoning me in absolute solitude15. Physical exhaustion came upon me from nowhere， paralyzing16 my ability to do anything else. I had to throw myself to bed as the night fell. Into this darkness I sank， pulling my mind down to a state of activity.17 Was what he had done really an irritating case？ Negative. Had I ever given it a chance to listen to and understand him？ Negative. Did such a rage come solely from his misbehavior18？ Negative. My job， the endless demanding work， my family life， the monotonous house chores， my kid， his pious hope for my full companionship and my guilt of sacrificing the time with him for the illusive completion of work all framed a minefield， for the explosion of which， all that was needed was a fuse.19 I was a bad， terrible， horrible， awful， and evil mother. My son was the victim， I had to confess.
My sister phoned to inform me of the latest news about him. He declined an outdoor walk， a ride in the park， and even his favorite toys and games. “What do ya wanna do， my dear？” asked his aunt gently. Aimlessly moving alongside the walls around the room， he answered， “Nothing. I just wanna be alone.” My sister blamed me for such a premature20 reply from a 4-year-old boy. “Come. Correct your fault. Make up for his heartbroken loss.” My sister gave me the irresistible command.
Shame was upon anlike me. I didn’t have the courage to admit my own fault before a kid. When I saw him avoiding my presence the moment I stepped into his shelter， I felt hurt and frustrated. So I turned back and was about to leave when my son dashed to the front door in a sudden and grabbed my leg， holding me back hard with his two arms， pleading wildly for my mercy.21 “Mom， don’t go. Mom， don’t leave me. I wanna be your boy. Mom， please. Mom， please， I am your boy…” I could read the greatest sorrow and the most genuine innocence in his crying big round eyes. I stooped down， holding this tiny shivering creature tight in my arms， tears coursing down my face.22
For those who believe “Sticks and stones may break the bone， but words can never hurt anyone”， I have a piece of heartfelt23 advice. Do not ever try this most powerful weapon against the people you love. It is sharp enough to cut the deepest into a soul and bleed the most delicate part.24 I have tried， and caused hurt， leaving a scar here， in my own heart and a scar there， in my little boy’s heart.