Short Stories: A Special Occasion

Lan fiddled with her bone-white chopsticks, not knowing how to tell her husband that the fridge was almost empty again. They sat at the dinner table in silence. The weak yellow light from the bare bulb above their heads buzzed. Her husband occasionally stabbed at the small chunk of steamed white fish. She had hoped that by cooking his favourite dish, she would not have to suffer his wrath that evening. Lan always tried to prolong the time between her trips to the market. She would painstakingly portion out the meat to make sure it lasted, saving it only for dinners when she knew her husband would be home. On occasions when Lan was alone, she would crush up wheat biscuits and mix them with milk that had been diluted with water.

In the corner of her eye, the meat cleaver gleamed dully in the kitchen. It hung next to the chopping board; blade still sharp even after years of use. It was a wedding present from Ma. Only use it on special occasions, she had sternly instructed. Ma was never superstitious; a cleaver was as good a tool as any other. Keep yourself fed said Ma, as she pressed the cleaver into Lan’s hands so many years ago. It was what Ma herself had done when her Pa had disappeared. Pa’s leaving was a blessing, their fridge was full of meat after Pa was gone.

It only needed a firm hand and a firmer will to wield it. Lan remembered how the blade had hummed in her palm.

She turned her attention to the spinach swimming in the metal dish. The curve of the dish distorted her reflection, pulling her lips up into a tight grin. Her chopstick clinked lightly against her blue-white porcelain rice bowl. Lan’s husband grunted as he curled his lips back, extracting slivers of thin fishbone from between his teeth. He eyed her with mild distaste.

‘Your mother never teach you how to cook properly ah? Can’t cook, can’t clean, can’t even fuck properly, I marry you for what? Kena scam.’

A copious glob of spit clunked into the metal dish. She flinched as the sound rang in her ears but Lan did not raise her eyes from her warped reflection. Her husband’s arm lashed out like a whip and swept across the table. Lan was suddenly staring at the wooden splinters of her table and surrounded by echoes of clattering dishes. Still, she did not lift her head. Under the rickety dining table, her hands were clamped tightly, bones straining white against the thin skin of her knuckles. What would Ma do?

Lan glanced at the cleaver, now glinting like moonlight. She pried her fingers apart and lifted them, shakily pressing them on the table to push herself upright. Just as she stood, he violently shoved past her to stand in front of their tiny altar. Stumbling backwards, Lan’s squeezed her watery eyes shut. Clutching the edge of the table to regain her balance, she slowly crouched down. She extended her fingers outwards and delicately picked up the shards of porcelain, clinking them into her cupped palms. She clenched her fist tightly, staring at her arms which were mottled with angry purple bruises. Her body was a shifting patchwork of greenish-blue, blossoming fresh against her skin ever since she had married. What would Ma do?

The incense burning from the altar was curling in thick grey swirls. Like a ghost, the cloying scent trailed after Lan into the kitchen. Lan dropped the shattered dishes in the sink and turned on the tap. Water gushed out noisily, running the red off her palm and swirling downwards. She deeply inhaled. It was the same incense they burnt at Ma’s funeral. What would Ma do? The meat cleaver was right beside her now, glowing in the dark kitchen.

Lan knew exactly what Ma would do.

She gingerly lifted the cleaver off its hook and firmly gripped the cherry wood handle. The cleaver was a warm comforting weight in her hand, it was as if she was holding Ma’s hand again. She barely registered the pinpricks of porcelain shards stabbing into the delicate soles of her feet as Lan surged forth like a vengeful spirit, spying the unwashed nape of her husband’s neck. He was still stood in front of the altar, back-facing Lan with eyes closed in loud fervent prayer for a better wife. It seemed not so long ago that they had stood together before the altar and made their wedding vows.

Husband and wife stood before the altar once more. But now there was a greater vow between mother and daughter to be upheld.

Lan lifted the blade up high in the air, eyes shining as the blade vibrated with supernatural energy. Ma had said a firm hand, and a firmer will was all it took. The blade sang as it sliced through the air in an unforgiving arc. Two generations of women brought their will upon the men that had been cruel to them. An unholy screech ripped from Lan’s lips as sharpened metal hacked through thick cords of muscle. Viscous, hot blood bloomed from his back, a keening groan followed by a muted thud was all that remained of her husband.

Lan looked down at the sacrifice she made at the altar with an imperious gaze. She languidly slid down and lay close to his body, holding his hand with her blood-stained ones. She pressed her sweaty forehead against his and felt his shallow breath weaken. The blade in her hand was black with blood. It clattered against the floor. The meat cleaver had served its purpose and would continue to serve its purpose. Lan no longer had a husband. The man who had made her starve to survive was gone. Never again would she have to tell anyone that the fridge was empty. Because it would not be, the fridge would be full of ghosts and a dead husband. Lan had kept herself fed, in fact, she would feast.

After all, it was a special occasion.