You went back inside the house when you started dozing off, about three hours later.

Hopefully, you could sleep another hour, till 5 or 6 am if you were lucky and your mother didn't wake up sooner.

Sleeping alleviated the pain. Life felt so much better when you were asleep.

The blaring of the alarm in the next room didn't startle you.

At this point, nothing did.

You had been waiting for 6 am so that you could get out of bed. Now you could.

Pushing the blanket off your body, you sat up on your bed, landing your feet on the floor.

You grabbed said blanket into your hands, taking hold of the hem before you started to fold it. When you were done, you placed it neatly on top of the pillow; a slight form of satisfaction formed in yourself.

This wouldn't be a reason for your mother today if she were to enter your room and find it in a disheveled state.

But she always managed to find or create other reasons, sparing no effort to exert her wrath and hatred for you.

You weren't sure if she actually hated you. But she didn't love you. That much was evident.

Lifting your t-shirt up a bit, you looked down at your stomach. It still hurt and there was a bruise now.

You'll have to buy something for it when you go out in search of another job later.

Until then, you relied on hot water as you bathed.

Heat boosts blood flow and also helps with the pain. Warm water can even reduce swelling.

Around 7 am, you were done with your morning routine and walked down the stairs.

Your first task was picking up the empty bottles that were still left in the living room.

Picking up the remaining trash from the kitchen, you were ready to take it out to the garbage bin down the street.

And it was just your luck that an empty bottle would fall out of the polyethene cover.

You closed your eyes in regret at not being able to prevent it. As if that would change anything.

The bottle shattered on the floor and surely it could be heard.

Because the next second, your uncle walked inside the kitchen. He looked down at the glass pieces and then back at you.

"Won't you be careful?" He said loudly. "What if my sister or I stepped on it?"

"I'm sorry. I'll clean it now," you kept your voice low as you crouched down, starting to pick the glasses up with your bare hands.

You closed your eyes momentarily, feeling a hard smack in the back of your head.

"Useless," your uncle said loud enough for you to hear before he left the kitchen.

The force made you cut your finger on a shard accidentally, but it could be ignored when compared to the throbbing pain you now felt on the back of your head.

You felt tears in your throat but you didn't have time for crying. You had to clean the mess you made.

Breathing out, you just shook your head a little before cleaning the glass shards and picking up the trash bag again.

Your uncle was leaving for Singapore again, after a month-long holiday.

So to send him off, your mother made her most special and absolute favorite food which was coconut rice.

She loved coconuts. And she always made something with it every single day.

Coconut rice, coconut oats, coconut chutney, coconut milk, coconut pie, coconut macaroons, coconut burfi, coconut fish sticks, coconut shrimp, coconut chicken soup.

You don't know why but you just couldn't like coconuts. Even if you tried to.

The feeling of being sick to your stomach, quite literally, never left. You'd often throw up discreetly after that.

If your mother found out, it was another one of the endless reasons for her to reprimand you.

But you ate it anyway, despite the nausea and headache it caused.

What if she decided you didn't need lunch and dinner again?

As long as you don't throw up when you're in her line of sight.

When you were done, you resigned to doing the dishes while your uncle left in a cab.

Your mother returned, wiping the tears in her eyes after an emotional departure.

The next few hours felt like it went by in the blink of an eye and it was almost lunchtime.

You spent the whole morning cleaning the house during which you found your phone in the living room.

Right, your mother trashed your SIM card before chasing you up the stairs yesterday, as some sort of retaliation.

She threw the phone at your head and you didn't notice where it fell down because she lunged at you with a small bronze vase soon after. It was then you took to the stairs.

Placing your phone in your room, you went downstairs again to assist your mother in the garden.

After coconuts, she loved gardening the most.

She'd often make bouquets and sell them to the local flower shop.

You'd help by holding the flowers she was going to cut.

And you tried not to wince as she cut your fingers with the snips, rather too harshly, more times than you count.

It didn't bleed much and was better than the times she'd use a sharp knife in the absence of snips.

They were a safer alternative to knives.

All the while, you kept thinking. Why not just leave the flowers in the plant?

For this reason, you wouldn't like it if someone gave you a bouquet of even the most beautiful flowers you could possibly lay your eyes on, only for them to wither away as time passes.

Not like anyone was going to give you a bouquet of flowers, you thought that as you went back inside the house, washing your hands.

You applied for an interview at a designer's studio not long from here.

They were willing to review some samples and you put all your hopes in it.

So if you could just go to your room and get hold of their number in the pamphlet again, it'd be great.

You were expected to make a call when you were ready. Maybe you could walk to the phone booth by evening.

Or any time your mother would go out since your uncle was already not in the country anymore.

Privacy is something you had only when you were home alone.

If you decide to take a walk randomly, you'll be questioned.

All those thoughts came crashing down when you stood near the doorframe of your room.

"Why do you have this here?" Your mother asked, looking at you with the pamphlet in her hand.

She wasn't enthusiastic about you pursuing fashion.

If you did, it'd mean that you're getting comfortable and a little too independent for her liking.

You didn't say anything. You knew you weren't supposed to say anything.

Because she would've already decided in her mind.

And it was only confirmed when she rushed forward, dropping the pamphlet and striking your neck.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself," she held your hair in a tight grip and you flinched before she dragged you down the stairs. "No matter how much I tell you, you'll never listen."

She let go of your hair once you reached the bottom of the stairs and you felt a burning sensation at the roots.

You kept an arm around your stomach that still hurt, the other holding the back of your head as you stood closely to the wall.

Your mother was rummaging in the kitchen for a few minutes, and when she returned, she held a ladle in her hand.

It touched your shoulder first and you recoiled with a scream. You could clearly feel the heat through the shirt you were wearing.

Your arm hit the fish tank that was placed on the table nearby, pushing it down.

The fish in the tank died and was buried in the garden weeks ago. Your mother felt too sentimental to pour the water to the ground or take the fish tank away.

She slapped you once with her other hand to keep you from moving.

You tumbled back to the floor, the hot end of the handle making contact with the bruised part of your stomach.

Tears cascaded down your cheeks and all you felt was the pain at the back of your head, the burn against your stomach.

Your mother was yelling in your face but all that felt muted.

At this point, you know all kinds of insults she'll hurl at you.

You only screamed in pain as she held the ladle against your forearm.

'Please,' you wanted to say. Yet you could not utter a word while clutching your burnt arm.

"I won't do it again," you said, trying to control your sobs. "I'll never do it again. Please-"

Your body temperature raised along with your heart rate and your mother was still yelling in your face.

'Worthless piece of trash.' 'You don't deserve to live.' And what not.

With your back pressed against the wall, you could make out a picture of the broken glass pieces on the floor through your blurry vision.

Your skin felt hot. You blinked and the fresh tears streamed down your cheeks.

'It's right beside her.'

You stopped crying but still breathed heavily.

What if you pushed her to the side?

What if she fell over the broken glass?

Just one push. It'll all be over.

You looked back at your mother who was about to raise her hand again.

And you snapped.

One of your hands came up to her neck and with a hard push, she was lying on the floor.

Silence filled the room and you cried again. "Why do you keep doing this to me?" You sobbed, bringing your hands up to your face. "What did I ever do to you!" You raised your voice for what was the first time in your life.

You couldn't control your cries anymore. You just sat there, sobs racking through your whole body as you kept mumbling 'please,' though you weren't sure why.

Maybe it was you pleading for her to let you go. Or anyone out there, to put you out of your misery.

You stopped a few moments later, swallowing the lump in your throat and looking down at your mother again.

She was still lying with one side of her face on the floor, between the puddle of water that was in the fish tank earlier.

"Ma," you called in a broken voice. She kept her eyes open but did not respond.

Wiping your tears with the back of your hand, you moved forward slightly on your knees.

"Ma," you called her again, shaking her shoulder a little.

You repeated the action again and the pool of water turned red.

Your lips parted a little in confusion, not being able to process what was happening as you turned her over.

Once your eyes registered the huge piece of glass stabbed halfway into her throat, your eyes widened.

As if you had touched fire, you pried your hands away and stumbled back, pressing yourself back against the wall.

Your lips quivered and your breathing became uneven.

Everything around you started spinning and your hands shot up to cover your mouth.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, finding it difficult to breathe for a few seconds before letting it out in a wail.

One that grew louder as you looked at her eyes staring off.

They were always soulless. Yes, lacking emotions. But life? Right now, they looked lifeless.

Your mother laid in a puddle of her own blood, one that kept expanding and almost reaching your legs.

Before it could, you scrambled off the floor, falling back again and then getting up to your feet as you looked at her one last time, running towards the door with one thought.

You just killed your mother.