The Bloody Carnation
I gripped the shiny certificate stamped with 'Outstanding Role Model Freshman,' my knuckles white from holding it so tight.
The street scenes outside the bus window sped by, like the fleeting glimmers of light I've never been able to catch in these eighteen years.
When the bus stopped, I took a deep breath, carefully folded the certificate, and slipped it into the inner pocket of my canvas bag.
It was my first time away from home, staying in the dormitory. After two weeks of physical training, I longed for the break—not because I missed home, but because I wanted to personally hand this honor to my father.
The leaves of the plane tree at the doorstep were scattered all over the ground, their withered yellow forms spinning in the wind. I stepped on the fallen leaves as I walked forward, each step brimming with hope.
I raised my hand and knocked on the door, which opened quickly—it was Father.
He wore a faded gray T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. When he saw me, his eyes brightened, and he reached out to take the backpack off my shoulder.
But his hand froze in midair as he quickly glanced toward the living room.
The sharp clatter of Mahjong tiles came from there, the sound steady and relentless. No doubt, Windy Scott was inside.
"You're home." Father's voice was low, laced with cautious warmth.
This is the only warmth I can hold onto in this house, like a tiny spark in the dead of winter, yet it's always snuffed out the moment Windy Scott appears.
He reached out to brush the stray hairs from my forehead, his fingertips brushing my sunburned, hot skin before quickly pulling back. "Was the physical training tough? You're a lot more tanned."
I smiled and shook my head, then pulled the certificate from my canvas bag, running my fingers over the gold-embossed letters, my voice full of hope: "Dad, look, I got the Outstanding Role Model award. The teacher said only five students in the entire department earned it."
The cover of the certificate was embossed with the university's school badge, faintly gleaming in the sunlight.
Dad took the certificate, running his fingers over the university's name on the cover again and again. The smile at the corner of his mouth was about to spill over, and the wrinkles around his eyes gathered tightly: "Our Bella is truly impressive, way better than I ever was."
At last, he lifted his hand and gently patted my head. The warmth of his palm passed through my hair, making my nose sting and my eyes fill with tears in an instant.
But that warmth lasted only two seconds before the sound of mahjong in the living room suddenly stopped with a loud crash.
Windy Scott stepped out wearing pink slippers, her hair tied back loosely with a hairband, a few stray strands stuck to her temples. Her face still showed the frustration of just losing money.
Her gaze first swept over me, sharp and piercing, then fell on Father's hand resting on my head. Her expression changed instantly—like a firecracker lit and ready to explode.
"Dylan Lynn! What are you doing!" Her voice was sharp and harsh, like nails scraping a chalkboard. I instinctively recoiled.
Dad quickly pulled back his hand, awkwardly hiding the certificate behind his back, trying to explain, "Windy, she just came home, she won an award, I..."
"An award?" Windy Scott sneered, striding over quickly, the sharp clicks of her high heels echoing on the floor. Her gaze sliced through me like a knife. "She came back for what? Didn't she go off to college? Why would she leave a perfectly good school just to come back and be a nuisance?"
I clenched the corner of my shirt, my fingertips digging into my palm, quietly defending, "Mother, physical training just ended, and the school gave us two days off—I thought..."
What are you thinking about? Windy Scott cut me off, her voice rising so sharply it hurt my ears. "Thinking about stealing my man back, aren't you? Taking advantage of me being distracted playing Mahjong to get so close to your dad. Bella Lynn, you're only eighteen—how can your heart be so cruel?"
No, Mother, I didn't!" I said urgently, my eyes stinging with tears as I reached out to show her the certificate, hoping she'd see I only wanted to share my happiness. "I just wanted to tell you I won an award, that's all...
Don't touch me!" Windy Scott suddenly slapped my hand away with such force that I lost my balance and staggered back two steps.
The certificate in Dad's hand slipped out, hitting the floor with a sharp 'plop.' The gold-embossed letters faced upward, dust clinging to them.
Windy Scott stepped forward, her high heel smashing down hard on the certificate. The heel crushed right over the school badge; the gold letters instantly warped, the corners curling up.
"An award? I think you're just using this worthless thing to try to win Dad's favor!" She looked down at me, eyes filled with disgust as if I were something filthy. "If it weren't for having you, do you think I'd be depressed? Eighteen years I've suffered—eighteen years—and now you have the nerve to compete with me for him?"
Father quickly stepped forward and grabbed her, his voice pleading, "Windy, don't get so worked up. The child doesn't understand. Don't take it out on her. The floor's cold—let's go back to the living room and talk, okay?"
"Take it out on her?" Windy shook off Father's hand with such force that he staggered back.
She spun around, pointing at Father's nose, her voice sharp with bitterness: "Dylan Lynn, is this daughter the only thing you see now? I'm your wife! When you married into the Scott family, who got you that job? Who gave you everything you have today? And now you're turning your elbows out?"
Father's face flushed red in an instant, like a balloon about to burst, then slowly turned pale, drained of color.
He opened his mouth, his throat worked, but in the end, he only managed to say, "I didn't do it, Windy, don't talk nonsense."
I crouched down, reaching to pick up the certificate that had been dirtied by being stepped on.
Just as my fingertips brushed the edge of the paper, Windy suddenly kicked the back of my hand. The tip of her shoe dug sharply into my skin, making me hiss, tears flooding my eyes in an instant.
"Who told you to pick that up?" She looked down on me from above, chin held high. "That broken thing? It doesn't belong in my house. Bella Lynn, I'm telling you: today, you either go back to school right now or stay locked up in that lousy room of yours. Don't come out and ruin my view!"
"Mother, my school doesn't start until tomorrow, today..." I bit back the pain, my voice cracking with tears as I tried to plead.
"So what if school starts tomorrow?" Windy Scott interrupted me, her voice sharp with impatience, "Leave now! I don't want to see you! If you don't go, I'll show you what it's like to watch me die!"
She said that and then turned, rushing into the kitchen.
Dad was so scared he hurried after her, and I scrambled to my feet in a panic. My hand still throbbed, but all I could do was follow them.
When we entered the kitchen, we saw Windy holding a kitchen knife. The silver blade glinted coldly as she pressed it against her own neck, her hand trembling slightly.
"Windy! Put down the knife! Let's talk this through!" Dad reached out to grab the knife, but she stopped him with a warning: "Don't come any closer! If you do, I swear I'll cut myself! Dylan Lynn, tell me—do you want her to stay in this house? Do you want me to die?"
"No, that's not what I meant!" Father's voice shook, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'll make Bella leave right now. I'll take her to school. Please put down the knife, okay?"
Windy Scott's eyes locked onto me, threatening, like she was staring down an enemy: "Did you hear that? Get out right now!"
I grasped the certificate, dirtied by being stepped on, its corners already wrinkled from my squeezing.
The back of my hand still ached faintly. Tears landed on the certificate, blotting a small patch of ink and smudging the words 'Outstanding Role Model' until they blurred.
I met Father's anxious eyes, then looked at Windy Scott holding the kitchen knife to her neck, and finally nodded, "Alright, I'll go."
Father sighed in relief, quickly took the kitchen knife from Windy Scott's hand, carefully set it on the stove, then turned to me and whispered, "Bella, wait by the door. I'm going to get the car keys and will take you to school right away."
I walked to the door and had just changed my shoes when I heard Windy Scott shouting at Father from the living room, "You can take her, but don't buy her anything! Don't give her money! If she dares to beg you, call me immediately! I'm watching you!"
Father's voice came through, tinged with resignation and a faint, barely noticeable weariness: "Alright, I won't buy her anything."
I stood outside the door as autumn wind stirred the fallen leaves at my feet.
The chilly wind made me shiver.
The certificate in my hand was crumpled, just like my eighteen years—full of creases, with not a smooth spot in sight.
Father came out quickly, holding the car keys and casually carrying a plastic bag with a bottle of water inside.
He handed me a bottle of water. "Drink on the way. Don't let yourself get thirsty."
After we got into the car, Dad was silent the entire journey.
The air inside the car felt heavy. Soft music played on the radio, but it did nothing to ease the tension.
Only when we neared the school gate did he took fifty from his pocket and slip it to me quietly, his fingers still trembling. "Bella, take this. Buy something to eat—don't go hungry. Don't always eat just vegetables in the school canteen; get some meat."
I stared at the fifty, its edges a bit worn, still warm from Dad's palm.
My eyes grew warm again, and I pushed the money back. "Dad, I don't want it. You keep it. I still have my physical training allowance left."
"Take it," Dad said, shoving the money into my pocket in a low voice, as if afraid someone might overhear. "Don't let your mother find out. Take care of yourself at school. If anything happens... just call me. Don't bottle it up."
I nodded but said nothing more.
The car stopped at the school gate, where a crowd of students and parents was bustling noisily.
I opened the car door and was about to step out when I heard Dad say again, "Bella, I'm sorry."
My steps faltered, my throat tightened, and I couldn't find the words to speak.
Without looking back, I simply waved my hand and walked into the school.
The car behind me quickly drove off, the engine's roar fading into the distance.
I stood in the schoolyard, staring at the certificate in my hand, feeling suddenly absurd—I thought this certificate might bring me some recognition, some warmth, but instead, it only earned me a beating and the cold command: "Get lost."
When I got back to the dorm, my roommates still hadn't returned.
The dorm was a four-person room, and my bed was by the window where sunlight streamed in.
I placed the certificate at the very bottom of the drawer, weighing it down with a thick dictionary, as if that could crush all the painful memories beneath.
Then I pulled a diary out of my backpack.
I bought this diary with five my father secretly gave me on my seventh birthday.
At the time, Windy Scott wouldn't let my father buy me any gifts. So when she went to play mahjong, he slipped me the money and told me to buy whatever I wanted from the corner store.
I didn't buy snacks—I bought this locked diary instead.
Over all these years, every grievance and hope I've had is written inside.
I turned to the newest page, hesitated for a moment, and wrote: "Today I received the Outstanding Role Model award. I wanted to share it with Dad and Mother, but Mother sent me away." Dad said sorry, but he didn't understand—I don't want apologies, I just want a little love. Mother, when will you stop hating me? Is it because I still haven't done well enough?"
After writing, I locked the diary, hung the key around my neck, and hid it beneath my clothes.
The sky outside darkened gradually, and the dormitory was silent except for the chirping of insects beyond the window.
I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. The pain on the back of my hand still lingered faintly, while the hurt inside me surged like a tide, engulfing me.
I didn't know how much longer this life would go on, nor how much longer I could endure.
All I knew was that I longed for love, craved warmth, and yearned for a normal home—yet these things felt like stars in the sky: visible, but forever out of reach.
The next morning, just after I got up, I received a call from Dad.
There was static on the line, and his voice sounded tired and a little hoarse: "Bella, your mother is in a better mood today. She said you should come home this weekend for dinner."
I was stunned, barely daring to believe it, my toothbrush frozen in my hand: "Really? Mother wants me to come home for dinner? She's not angry anymore?"
"Yes," Dad's voice held a hint of hope and caution, "Come home this weekend. I'll make your favorite Cola Chicken Wings and Sweet and Sour Pork Ribs, all the dishes you love."
After hanging up, a flicker of hope rose in my chest.
Maybe Mother has finally come to understand?
Maybe, seeing me win an award made her think I'm grown up and made her willing to treat me a bit better?
I was happy all day, drifting off in class without meaning to.
My roommate asked what was wrong, and I smiled, saying I'd be going home this weekend to eat Dad's cooking.
They looked at me with envy, saying how lucky I was, but I didn't dare tell them that Mother had reluctantly agreed to let me go home.
Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 926476 】reads the whole book.
My Fiction
SnackShort
Booklite« Previous Post
A Heart Despised
Next Post »
The Substitute Groom and His Reborn Bride