Canvas of a Short Life

My soul clung to the pearl earring Mom had given me, and it was shoved into the refrigerator along with my head.

It was freezing. I realized that extreme cold could burn my skin like searing fire. I couldn't see anything around me. The utter darkness and excruciating pain were unbearable.

I was terrified. I pounded weakly on the refrigerator door, struggling to scream, "Is anyone here? Can someone come save me?"

I was so cold, in so much pain, and so frightened. In the depths of my despair, I even thought of Mom. Even though she was the one who pushed me into this nightmare, I wondered if she would come for me once she noticed I was missing.

"Mom… Help me… Mom…"

…

Perhaps my prayers truly worked. In a daze, I actually heard Mom's footsteps. Her steps had always been hurried. She took out her keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

My frozen fingers trembled with excitement. Mom was here. Mom came to save me!

The moment the lock clicked, her voice rang out. "Beatrice Anderson! Get out here right now! What kind of tantrum are you throwing? Do you have any idea how hard it was to get that specialist appointment today? Do you even have a conscience, wasting my efforts like this?"

The hope that had sparked inside me was snuffed out. Out of habit, I apologized softly, "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to."

Mom searched the house, and when she couldn't find me, she tried calling my phone. The ringtone came from the ice tray above my head. My phone had been tucked into the freezer compartment right along with my torso.

My spirits rose again as I urged her to keep calling so the sound would lead her to me.

Sure enough, I heard Mom's footsteps drawing closer, until she was only a few steps away from the refrigerator. I was overjoyed, and I began banging my hands against the refrigerator door. "Mom, I'm here!"

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped before veering off toward the kitchen right next to the refrigerator.

"Filthy girl, this is disgusting," she grumbled. "If I hadn't walked over to the fridge, I never would've seen how dirty the kitchen is. She acts all proper and put-together in public, but in private, she's nothing like a real wife. How can she stand to look at a kitchen this disgusting?"

Mom turned on the faucet, tossed her phone aside, and started cleaning the kitchen. The sounds of scrubbing pots, washing dishes, and scouring the range hood with steel wool reached my ears one after another.

Mom was a doctor and obsessed with cleanliness. Growing up, she cleaned our home to the same rigorous standards as a transplant ward.