The next day, I returned home with this dry and hard pancake in my pocket. At that moment, Mom was still sitting on the chair with her hands tied behind her back like an obedient schoolgirl, only her eyes were closed, and her head was slightly tilted towards the edge of the chair back, as if she was asleep. I approached her gently, circled around her a few times, finding it quite amusing.
It's easy to imagine the scene: in a room plastered with red big-character posters, under the dim light, I stood by my mother's side, carefully observing her sleeping posture. The red paper reflected the dim light onto her face, making her frozen, weary smile appear soft and beautiful. Perhaps in my short sixteen years of life, I had never had the chance to observe a woman's sleeping posture so closely. And now, it was just the two of us, with no one watching, I could admire Mom's beauty without any scruples, without considering her identity as a class enemy, nor worrying that she might suddenly turn into a venomous snake or demon to devour me.
Thus, I was stunned, amazed by the beauty of Mom's weary sleep! Young as I was, I didn't realize that my amazement coincided with an ancient tale of 'viewing a beauty by lamplight,' which, in an era devoid of books to read, made my experience undoubtedly a stroke of luck.
At that moment, something tender gradually welled up in my heart, and my nose became extraordinarily sensitive, catching a faint whiff of fragrance. The scent was so familiar that it reminded me of everything that had happened the night before. I felt my face burning red now, and I took pride in my bold actions of the previous day.
Then, Mom suddenly woke up. She found me staring blankly at her chest, my face flushed, which reminded her of the humiliation she had suffered that day—it was I who had stripped her naked and exposed her to the public gaze. She hated me, wanted to spit at me, to curse me, yet she did nothing. After all, I was her son.
She hadn't eaten a single grain of rice for two days. Perhaps because of hunger, in the end, she just smiled faintly. When my gaze met hers, she let out a weak breath: 'I am ashamed of you, you little beast!'
I jumped aside as if electrocuted, as if my thoughts had just been exposed by Mom. With a flushed face, I said, 'Jia Meirong, don't you dare insult a revolutionary youth.'
Mother still smiled faintly, silently, yet it felt as thunderous as a storm, making me tremble with fear. I adored such smiles, yet for reasons unclear, they also frightened me, as if behind them lay a biting cold that inexplicably sent chills down my spine. In the days to come, even when I possessed Mother's body, even as her hostility towards me softened, she would often reveal this faint smile, stirring a tremor deep within my heart.
To mask the tremor and unease in my heart, I pulled out a dry, hard biscuit from my pocket and shoved it towards Mother's mouth: 'Eat. If you die, I won't be able to explain.'
Mother hesitated slightly before taking a fierce bite, nearly catching my hand. I jerked my hand back, watching as the biscuit moved laboriously in her mouth, her expression turning fierce.
My daily tasks were monotonous and dull, centered around two main issues: eating and excretion. The eating issue was fundamental and relatively easier to solve. I carried four bags of rice and flour from the commune, transported them home, and then replaced the lock on the door with a new Red Guard brand one.
By the time I finished all this, I was drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. Hands on my hips, I barked at Mother, 'Jia Meirong, you must recognize the current situation. The people are in charge now, and any scheme of yours will only lead to your own destruction. Starting today, you must cook for me. The people are invincible.'
Still, I wasn't entirely at ease. I found some old wire, looped one around her neck and another around her waist, freeing only her hands for work, then tied the loops together with a rope behind her back, securing the other end to my own waist.
When Mother cooked, ate, or went to the toilet, I would lead her with the rope. The rest of the time, even her hands were bound, ensuring nothing could go wrong. This arrangement filled me with a sense of triumph.
One morning, as I sat by the door lost in thoughts of my revolutionary struggles, I drifted into a reverie. The bright sunlight shone on my face, casting a radiant glow.
I was dreaming, excited by the idea of independently launching a revolutionary struggle. I thought, wasn't it Chairman Mao who, by independently leading the Autumn Harvest Uprising of Hunan peasants, established the precious Jinggangshan base for our Party? If I struggle against my mother, perhaps I could extract some useful clues from this landlord's wife, and thus make a great contribution to the Red General Station.
Then I thought, if I make a contribution, what reward would the Commander give me? Maybe the Commander would say, why not give Jia Meirong to you as a reward! It has always been the rule to award the spoils to those who have made contributions. What should I do then? Should I accept or not? My mother's weary smile flashed before his eyes again, her ox-like breasts straining outward, seemingly pressing against my lower abdomen, and I felt a surge of heat below. I cursed in my heart: Damn, a viper bites! Fuck it!
After lunch, I pulled my mother to sit opposite me and said seriously, 'Jia Meirong, you've been living quite well these days! You should understand that this is the people's preferential treatment of you. For this, you should show some gratitude.'
My mother said indifferently, 'What's there to say? I only regret not having strangled you, you little bastard!'
Scolded until my face turned red, I jumped up and cursed, 'Jia Meirong, don't insult the revolutionary youth!' I stepped forward and tore open my mother's outer garment. I don't know where the strength came from, but the part of the garment encircled by the wire tore open. Thus, her two breasts were exposed again, fearlessly trembling slightly to express their disdain.
I said fiercely, 'Isn't it said to be humiliating? Today we will humiliate you even more. Think about how many decent women your family has trampled upon!'
My mother smiled bleakly, 'But now I don't feel humiliated. You are my son, and your mother is waiting for you to suckle. Why don't you come over?'
I hesitated a little, crouched down, and braced myself, saying, 'I will do it. The revolutionary masses are justified in rebelling, and we fear nothing. Not only will we suck your milk, but we will also drink your blood.' Then I grasped my mother's breast and put my mouth to it to suck.
I occasionally looked up at my mother with pride, but she remained indifferent. I was having a great time, kissing one and then pinching the other, feeling thrilled. This was something I had never experienced before. When I was a child, a wet nurse named Ganniang fed me. She never gave me such an opportunity. Nursing was allowed, but prolonged kneading like this was absolutely out of the question. She would glare at me angrily, then slap my hand away, leaving me to cry in shock.
I noticed that my mother's breasts were different from Ganniang's. My mother's breasts were full, delicate, and heavy, while Ganniang's were rough and shriveled, as sallow as her face. This might be the most fundamental difference between the poor and lower-middle peasants and the capitalist's daughter. If I had to choose which one was better, I would definitely choose my mother's. Then I felt I had made a mistake in my stance. No matter how good the enemy's things are, they are just sugar-coated bullets. Better socialist weeds than capitalist seedlings. Besides, my mother's breasts couldn't produce milk now; they were for the bourgeoisie to see. Ganniang's breasts were for nurturing children, so hers were better after all.
I looked up at my mother again, hoping to see pain and embarrassment on her face. But there was none. My mother still smiled faintly, not even frowning. Suddenly, I felt wronged, as if I had been teased. I lowered my head and bit the breast hard. My mother's scream pierced through the house, and I finally saw her face twisted in pain and misery.
At night, I couldn't sleep at all. I listened to the next room, but my mother made no sound, seeming to sleep soundly. I felt a bit of regret for what had happened during the day. Such beautiful breasts, but I left a scar on them, which was truly a pity. I remembered that the blood had stained the breasts red at that time, and now I felt vaguely uneasy. Then I scolded myself, wasn't it because she was beautiful that I sympathized with the class enemy? Maybe she was acting out a scheme of bitter suffering?
Such emotions were the most undesirable. I tried hard to close my eyes, but still couldn't sleep. My mind was in chaos, and I couldn't sort out my thoughts. In the end, I decided to go to that room to take a look.
I tiptoed to my mother's bedside, listening to her even breathing. Fortunately, she wasn't awakened. Gently, I lifted the blanket to look at her under the faint moonlight. The iron rings around her neck and waist were still there, her front open, her breasts exposed, and her hands placed flat by her sides, just as they had been during the day. Normally, I would have tied her arms and body together for sleep, but today, after biting her breast, I felt it was inappropriate to do more, so I only secured the iron rings, tying the other end of the rope to the bed.
Now, I noticed that the bitten breast was covered with a piece of cloth. After a moment of hesitation, I gently uncovered it. The wound, formed by four teeth marks, resembled a red moon embedded in the towering white breast, still oozing blood like tears from the red moon. I stared at it for a long time, my whole body trembling slightly. A complex emotion slowly rose within me, enveloping me.
In the end, I climbed onto my mother's body and did what I had to do.