Bad Fruit

by Ella King

What my father called heterochromia iridis. What Julia called my freak eyes. And Mama? She called them ang moh gui eyes, white devil eyes, eyes that in Singapore, I would have been drowned for. My life then, a favor bestowed by a mother who loves too much. Yet here they are, beneath the thinnest circle of brown plastic, reminding me that just once in my life, I’d like to do something worthy of drowning.

I am prepared for this. Living with Mama, while ruining me for normal life, has granted me certain talents. I’m rarely hungry, accustomed to interrupted, half meals, and not picky after spoilt juice—I eat leftover picnic lunches without recoiling from the taste. The winding branches of rhododendrons cover me like hands, flowers color my waking. I’m frightened of nothing but myself.