​​Parasite

I spaced out at the fried chicken and tart in front of me for over an hour. Finally, I picked up the chicken wing with hesitation. In the end, I couldn't bring myself to eat it.

I rose from my seat with a heavy heart. It was time to go home.

"Wait a minute. Aren't you going to eat that?" A good-looking but shabbily dressed teenage boy stopped me.

"No."

Hearing that, he stuffed the chicken wing into his bag. He mumbled, "Rich kids like you—ordering food and not eating it. How silly! It's such a waste."

I opened my mouth but couldn't say a word. I didn't mind him taking the chicken; it was better than throwing it away. But he was wrong—I wasn't rich.

It had taken me ages to save up for that 50-dollar meal. Yet, I dared not even savor it.

When I got home, the familiar sight of my parents at the dining table greeted me. Tonight's dinner was the same as always—a "nutritious and balanced meal" that, in all honesty, tasted like crap.

The meat, its skin bristling with unplucked hairs, gave off a putrid stench. The vegetables, overcooked and mushy, resembled vomit and tasted bland.

I started to miss the smell of that fried chicken. I'd never tasted fried chicken in my life, but at least it wouldn't make me gag.

"Why are you home so late?" Mom's expression clouded over. Her lips were downturned.

I hung my head low. "I was doing homework at school."

"Tsk. We shouldn't have let you attend school. It's too much trouble. From now on, you're to be home by 7:00 pm sharp, or you'll stop going altogether," she warned me sternly. "Now, come eat."

I obeyed and meekly shoveled the food, bit-by-bit, into my mouth.

"Wait a second. What's that smell?" Mom's nostrils flared, and her gaze sharpened.

My heart sank in shock.

"Extend your hand!" Her voice was shrill enough to slice through steel. "I smell fried chicken on you!"

I had been caught. Trembling violently, I started to cry. "Dad, Mom, I was wrong. I didn't eat the fried chicken. I just had a whiff of it—"

She snatched my hand and sniffed. Then, without warning, she slapped me hard across the face.

"Your fingers reek of spices! How dare you lie to me?"

My face turned to the side after the slap. My nose felt sore to the touch, and a warm liquid trickled out of my nostrils.

"Geez, why did you make her nose bleed?" Dad asked. He always spoke in an unhurried yet authoritative manner. "It's such a waste. Didn't I tell you not to hit her until she bleeds?"

"Why couldn't I?" Mom answered. Her shrill voice could pierce through my eardrums. "She secretly had junk food behind our backs. What will August do if she destroys her health?"

"But beating her up is not the solution."

During their argument, I grabbed a napkin to wipe off my blood, tears, and snot.

Half an hour later, they reached a decision—I was to be grounded.

The mere mention of it made my legs turn to jelly. Trembling, I felt warmth trickle down my legs. I had wet myself.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong. I will never eat outside food anymore. Please don't ground me. Take my blood, however much you want. Just don't ground me…"

I collapsed on the floor, my pride all gone. In my desperation, I forgot I hadn't even eaten the chicken in the first place.

My parents loomed over me, watching me cry. Such was my life.

"You're grounded for two days. Learn your lesson. Don't upset us again," Dad announced the verdict in a drawl as he stared at me from above.