At the end of the day, when it rains, it pours.
The doctors and police discovered that I ate my mother's eyeball.
I got detained by the police for contaminating evidence. They kept me in a small interrogation room with gray walls and a metal table bolted to the floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds. A detective sat across from me, his tie loose, his eyes tired. He had a coffee cup in front of him, half empty and probably cold.
They didn't charge me with anything in the end. Maybe because they pitied me. Maybe because they thought I was mentally ill. Either way, they let it go.
I was interrogated for five hours about who my mother was, how she was as a person. I told them everything. About the rules. About the guitar. About Amy. About how she always loved me, even when it hurt.
The detective leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight. He rubbed his face with both hands, pulling down on his cheeks until his eyes looked hollow.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath.
The detective's expression became more and more twisted as I spoke. He must have been disgusted that I was the person who couldn't take care of my mother. So I accepted it. In his eyes, I must have looked like a complete psycho, and he must have felt disgusted. So I understood.
After they let me out, one detective called me back. His name was John Miller. He was older, maybe in his late forties, with graying hair and kind eyes that seemed out of place on a cop. He had a scar above his left eyebrow, faded and old.
"Hey, kid," he said, his voice softer than the others. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
I nodded and followed him to a quieter corner of the station. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, then seemed to think better of it and let them drop to his sides.
"Look," he started, then paused. He seemed to be searching for the right words. "What happened to you... what your mother did... it's not your fault."
I stared at the floor. The tiles were scuffed and dirty.
"You hear me?" He stepped closer. "It's not your fault."
Then he gave me a hug.
For some reason, this broke me. I never cried like this before. Not when my mother hit me. Not when Amy left. Not even when I found out she was dead. But this hug, from a stranger who had no reason to care, made me wail like a child. I pressed my face into his shoulder and sobbed, my whole body shaking. My fingers gripped his jacket, wrinkling the fabric.
"It's okay," he said quietly, patting my back. "Let it out. Just let it out."
When I finally stopped, he stepped back and handed me a tissue from his pocket. It was crumpled but clean. I wiped my face, my nose, my eyes. Everything was wet and sticky.
He pulled out his wallet and gave me his business card. "This is my number. If you ever feel uncomfortable or need someone to talk to, you call me. Anytime. Day or night. I mean it."
I took the card with shaking hands. "Thank you."
"And if you need it, I can introduce you to a good psychiatrist. Someone who can actually help."
He must have seen the worst of the worst human beings to be able to empathize with someone like me. So I understood.
After I got out of the station, local reporters swarmed me. They came out of nowhere, like vultures. They shoved microphones in my face and took pictures, the camera flashes blinding. They recorded everything, shouting over each other.
"How do you feel after losing your mother?"
"What was she like when she was alive?"
"Did you know she was capable of murder?"
"Is it true you desecrated her body?"
I stood there, blinking in the lights, not knowing what to say. My mouth opened and closed like a fish. Finally, I managed to speak.
"My mother was a good mother," I said, my voice barely audible over the noise. "She did her best to protect her own child. I loved my mother."
Before I could say anything else, Detective John appeared. He pushed through the crowd and grabbed my arm.
"Move! Get out of the way!" he shouted at the reporters. He led me through them, his body shielding me from the cameras.
Once we were away from the crowd, he turned to me, his face red.
"Why did you talk to them?" he scolded me, his voice sharp. "Don't you understand? It's only going to make the situation worse. They're going to twist your words. They're going to make you look like a monster."
"I just wanted to tell the truth," I said quietly.
He sighed, his shoulders dropping. "I know, kid. But sometimes the truth doesn't matter to people like that."
He drove me back to my dorm in his old sedan. The car smelled like old coffee and cigarettes. The radio played softly, some country song I didn't recognize. Neither of us spoke. When we arrived, he put the car in park but didn't turn off the engine.
"You call me if you need anything," he said, looking at me. "I mean it. Anything at all."
I nodded and got out. "Thank you, Detective Miller."
"John," he corrected. "Just call me John."
But being the child of a murderer is never easy.
Because of my interview, they plastered my face all over the news. Headlines screamed: "Son of Murderer Defends His Sick Mother?" and "Delusional Son Claims Mother Was Good Person." They showed my picture, the one where I looked dazed and confused, my eyes red from crying.
The outrage was enormous.
I was harassed by my own family. My aunt's husband called me every day, screaming obscenities until I blocked his number. But he found other numbers to call from. My classmates avoided me like I was contagious. When I walked down the hallway, people would stop talking and stare. Some would whisper. Others would laugh. My friends stopped answering my texts. People I didn't even know sent me hate mail and death threats.
Someone spray-painted "MURDERER'S SON" on my dorm room door in red paint. I tried to scrub it off, but it just smeared.
The university called me into the dean's office. A woman in a gray suit sat behind a large desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The office was too clean, too organized. Everything had its place. She looked at me with barely concealed disgust.
"Mr. Lin," she began, her voice cold and professional. "I'm sure you understand that this situation has become... untenable."
I sat in the chair across from her, my hands in my lap. "I understand."
"We've received numerous complaints from students and faculty. There are concerns about safety. About the learning environment."
"I haven't done anything wrong," I said quietly.
"That may be true," she replied, not sounding like she believed it. "But perception matters. We think it's best if you withdraw. For everyone's sake."
So the university forced me to drop out.
It felt really shitty. But I understood. It was my fault for being my mother's child.
I packed my things that same day. I didn't have much. Some clothes, my laptop, a few books. I stuffed everything into a duffel bag and left. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. There was no one to say goodbye to.
I felt like all hope was lost. I had nowhere to go. No family. No friends. No future.
So I became homeless.
I slept on park benches and under bridges. I ate from trash cans and begged for spare change. The nights were cold, and I would curl up under newspapers and cardboard boxes, trying to stay warm. During the day, I wandered the streets, looking for odd jobs or food. It was fine, I told myself. I was at fault for being my mother's child.
One evening, about three weeks later, I was walking in the rain, contemplating life. The water soaked through my clothes, cold and heavy. My shoes squelched with every step. I thought about my mother. About the eyeball. About how warm it had been. About how she was with me now, always.
At that moment, someone handed me an umbrella.
It was Detective John.
I looked up, surprised. He was standing there in a raincoat, holding out a black umbrella. His car was parked nearby, the engine still running.
"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked.
I shook my head, water dripping from my hair.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Then he made a decision.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get you out of the rain."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"No, you're not." He opened the passenger door of his car. "Get in."
I hesitated, then climbed in. The heater was on, blowing warm air. I sat there, dripping water onto the seat, and John didn't seem to care.
He decided to take me to his family and adopt me as his son.
He lived with his wife in a small house on the edge of town. It was a modest place, a single story with a small yard and a white picket fence that needed repainting. They were both in their late forties, with no children of their own. His wife, Margaret, was a warm woman with laugh lines around her eyes and graying brown hair she kept in a ponytail.
When John brought me home, soaking wet and shivering, she didn't hesitate.
"Oh, you poor thing," she said, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. Her hands were warm. "Come in, come in. I'll make you some tea. John, get him some dry clothes."
I never knew someone could be this kind.
Margaret made chamomile tea and brought me cookies while I sat on their couch, wrapped in the blanket. John came back with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that were too big for me, but they were dry and clean.
"The bathroom's down the hall," he said. "Go change. Take a hot shower if you want."
When I came back, clean and warm, they were sitting at the kitchen table. Margaret patted the seat next to her.
"Sit down, honey. We need to talk."
I sat.
"John told me what happened," she said gently. "About your mother. About everything."
I looked down at my hands.
"You can stay here," she continued. "As long as you need. We have a spare room. It's not much, but it's yours."
"I don't want to be a burden," I said.
"You're not a burden," John said firmly. "You're a kid who needs help. And we're going to help you."
His wife accepted me without question. Detective John started calling me "son," and I started calling him "father." Margaret insisted I call her "Mom." It felt strange at first, like wearing someone else's clothes. But eventually, it fit.
I wanted to make them proud. So I chose to work my ass off, barely sleeping, to earn some money. I took odd jobs, anything I could find. I fixed computers, did data entry, helped small businesses with their websites. I taught myself coding and web design from free online courses, staying up until three or four in the morning.
"You don't have to do this," Margaret said one night, seeing the dark circles under my eyes. She put a hand on my shoulder. "We're not asking you to pay us back."
"I know," I said, rubbing my eyes. "But I want to help. I want to help you both retire someday."
John patted my shoulder. "You're a good kid, Noel. But don't burn yourself out."
"I won't," I lied.
And then my startup became somewhat successful.
I opened a tech consulting business. It wasn't much at first, just me and a laptop, working from John and Margaret's kitchen table. But word spread. I was good at what I did. People started hiring me. Within a year, I was making ten thousand dollars a month.
John and Margaret were proud. They framed my first big check and hung it on the wall in the living room, right next to their wedding photo.
"Look at you," Margaret said, her eyes shining with pride. "Our successful son."
I smiled. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
Then one day, my father appeared.
My real father. The one who left when I was two.
He showed up at my office unannounced. I had rented a small space downtown by then, nothing fancy, just a room with a desk and some chairs. I was working on a client's website when the door opened and he walked in, wearing an expensive suit and a watch that probably cost more than my rent. He had graying hair, slicked back, and a confident smile. Behind him was a younger woman in designer clothes, his new wife, and two teenage boys who looked bored.
"Noel," he said, like we were old friends. "Look at you. All grown up."
I stared at him. I didn't know what to feel. My hands stopped moving on the keyboard.
"Do I know you?" I asked, even though I knew exactly who he was.
"It's me," he said, placing a hand on his chest. "Your father. David Lin."
The woman behind him smiled awkwardly. The two boys were on their phones, not paying attention.
To be honest, I wanted to kill him right then and there. But I understood, so I accepted it. The teenage years can be hard with a child. He did what he thought was best. He had his own life to live.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice flat.
"Is that any way to greet your old man?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "I heard you were doing well. Tech consulting, right? Making good money?"
"Who told you that?"
"Word gets around." He sat down in one of my chairs without being invited, crossing his legs. "I've been keeping tabs on you. I'm proud, son. Really proud."
I didn't say anything.
We exchanged pleasantries after that, stiff and awkward. He asked about my business. I tried my best to impress him, showing him some of my work, talking about my clients. I didn't know why, but maybe, deep down, I wanted him to realize that my mother had raised me well, that I had become a successful person despite everything.
He nodded along, looking at my computer screen, making interested noises.
"You know," he said after a while, leaning back in the chair. "You've got talent. Real talent. But you're thinking too small."
"What do you mean?"
"You're doing well, but you haven't registered this as a proper company, have you? You're just freelancing."
"I guess."
"Let's start a company together," he said, his smile widening. "Father and son. We'll make it official. Register it, get investors, scale it up. It'll be great."
I was surprised. My heart beat faster. "Really?"
"Of course. Family should stick together, right?"
I wanted to believe him. I really did.
"Let's split the shares fifty-fifty," he said. "And I'll pay for the registered capital myself. You just focus on the work. You're good at what you do. I'll handle the business side."
It sounded fair. So I trusted him.
"Okay," I said. "Let's do it."
He stood up and shook my hand, his grip firm. "That's my boy. We're going to do great things together."
I worked my ass off for the next three years. I took a salary of two thousand dollars a month while he handled the finances and the business operations. He said I would have to pay more taxes if I took a higher salary, so it was better to wait until the company entered the stock market. Then I would be paid in stock, and I wouldn't have to pay taxes.
It made sense to me. So I accepted it.
I worked sixteen-hour days, sometimes more. I built the company from the ground up with my code, my designs, my ideas. I hired a small team, managed the projects, dealt with clients. My father handled the legal side, the investors, the contracts. He was good at schmoozing, at selling the vision.
And finally, we succeeded enough to enter the stock market.
The day we got the news, my father threw a party at his house. I was invited, of course. I wore my best suit, the one Margaret had helped me pick out. When I arrived, the house was full of people I didn't know. Investors, business partners, his family.
My father found me in the crowd and pulled me aside.
"We need to talk," he said, his smile gone.
We went into his office. He closed the door behind us and sat down at his desk. I stood, my hands in my pockets.
"So," he said, pulling out some documents. "The stock offering went through. We're officially public."
"That's great," I said, feeling a surge of pride. "We did it."
"Yeah." He didn't look at me. He was flipping through the papers. "But there's something you should know."
"What?"
He looked up then, and his expression was cold.
"When I said I would take care of the registered capital, I meant all of it. The company is registered under my name. I own everything."
I felt my stomach drop. "What?"
"You don't own any shares, Noel. You never did."
"But you said fifty-fifty."
"I said a lot of things." He leaned back in his chair. "Look, you've done good work. I appreciate it. So I'll increase your salary to five thousand dollars a month. That's generous, considering."
"Considering what?" My voice was shaking.
"Considering you're just an employee." He tapped his pen on the desk. "You can choose to accept it or fuck off. Your choice."
I stood there, my hands clenched into fists. My vision blurred. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might explode.
But I understand. I understand. I understand. I understand. I understand.
Fuck. I don't fucking understand. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.
"I need some air," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
"Take your time." He went back to his papers, dismissing me.
I left the office, telling him I would come back.
And I did come back. But with a chainsaw.
I bought it from a hardware store on the way. The clerk, a middle-aged man with a beer gut, asked what I needed it for.
"Cutting down a tree," I said, smiling.
He smiled back. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks."
I drove back to the office. It was late, past midnight. Most people had gone home, but my father was still there. He always worked late. The light was on in his office.
I walked in through the front door. The security guard looked up from his desk.
"Hey, you can't bring that in here," he started to say.
I turned on the chainsaw. The roar drowned out his voice.
My father's scream was so sweet to the ear. So were the screams of the employees who were still there, working overtime.
The office turned red. The walls, the floor, the desk, the computers. Everything. The chainsaw roared, drowning out the noise. People tried to run, but I was faster. Some tried to hide under desks. Others tried to reason with me.
"Please, I have a family!"
"I didn't do anything!"
"Stop! Please stop!"
But I didn't stop.
When it was over, I stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing hard. The chainsaw was still running, sputtering. I turned it off. The silence was deafening.
I walked over to what was left of my father. His body had been split into three pieces, scattered across the floor. I found his head near the desk. One eye was still intact, staring at nothing.
I picked it up carefully, wiping it clean with my shirt.
And I ate it.
The texture was familiar now. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside. The taste of salt and metal. I chewed slowly, savoring it.
So that he would be together with me forever. So he couldn't betray me again.
And then I thought, I have brothers, don't I?