Mother's Experiment: The Key to Insanity

When they shoved me hard against the wall, pain shot up my spine. Someone grabbed my collar, yanking me upright before their fist slammed into my chest.

A muffled sound escaped my throat, and tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"You're always so cold, like a walking corpse. Everyone's upset, and you're still standing here smiling?" another said.

I wanted to tell them I wasn't smiling on purpose—that I didn't want to be someone incapable of showing sadness—but Mom's control left me no choice. All that appeared on my face was that hollow, mechanical smile.

I tried to shrink into the corner, but they dragged me back out, slamming my face against the wall until the skin scraped raw. A sharp sting burned across my cheek.

"Are you still trying to hide? You did it on purpose, didn't you? The whole school knows you're the one who bully that dog."

…

By the time evening came, my homeroom teacher, Aaron Throne, walked me home and briefly explained the situation to Mom.

The moment she saw my face, Mom exploded.

"Why do you always have to cause trouble? Did you feed that dog something you shouldn't have? Otherwise, why would your classmates accuse only you? You will apologize to them tomorrow. I want this matter resolved before you bring me any more shame."

I looked up at her, stunned. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?"

Mom snapped, "Does it matter who's right or wrong? Why do you think they're picking on you instead of someone else? Don't you dare claim you're innocent. I've worked tirelessly to maintain your skin and your looks, and you have no idea how much effort I've put into you.

"Did I say you could get hurt? Stay on your knees until you've reflected on your mistake. You're also not eating dinner until then."

Suddenly, my knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor as if something unseen had forced me down. My fingers clutched the seams of my pants, whitening with tension.

"Mom, I never wanted to be perfect," I thought bitterly.

…

"Hey, what are you wearing for the class party tomorrow, Elsa?" Myra Lincoln, my classmate, asked as we walked home from school.

I gave a weary smile. "Probably my gym uniform. It's the only thing I have."

"Oh, come on, that's so dull. Come here," she said, catching my wrist and pulling me toward a shop window.

Pointing excitedly at a soft, cream-colored dress on display, she added, "Look at this—you'd look beautiful in it."

I shook my head. "I've never worn a dress before. Mom says students should only focus on studying, so she chooses all my clothes for me."

"Students should look confident and full of life," Myra corrected me with a grin. "Besides, wearing something you love can actually lift your mood. When you feel good, you'd focus better.

"Trust me—wear this to the party, and everyone will see a different side of you."

Her words stayed with me long after. For almost 18 years, Mom had dictated every part of my life—from the amount of water I was allowed to drink to the school I was told to attend.

So, for the first time, I decided for myself—I bought the dress.

…

The party arrived sooner than I expected. For the first time, I felt light and truly alive.

The room was filled with laughter and music, and for a fleeting moment, I belonged.

And then, in the middle of it all, Mom appeared at the door. My heart froze, and I shot to my feet in panic.

"What on earth are you doing?" she snapped. "What is that outfit? And what's that nonsense on your lips?"

"Mom, it's just for the party…"

Before I could finish, she slapped me across the face.

"How dare you? I spent everything I had to make you perfect, and this is how you repay me? Running around with your little friends, wearing that ridiculous dress, embarrassing me in public like this?"