I really don’t want to be here. I’d rather hide myself under layers of solid rock. Granite. Marble. I’d rather be stuck in ice than suffer humiliation. I’d rather stick pins into my eyeballs than greet them all.

I walk in with a soft smile holding my daughter’s hand loosely. She’s only two and everyone awes at her bright, brown eyes, her pretty, pink dress and her dolly shoes slipped onto her darling feet. Everyone greets her with wide smiles, drooling with venom. I continue smiling on and walk in further as my husband stays at my heels, head down. I don’t hear any words towards him. I shake the anger growing in me and land inside the living room. I hear words of joy. Greetings whirl through the room and I raise my hand and signal them politely before continuing to the kitchen, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. I hear shrieks of excitement and watch a flock of bright colours fly towards me. My daughter below me cries, frightened, and runs to her father where immediately he lifts her up to safety. I grin again and laugh it off, touching everyone resentfully. No one greets him or her. I feel my anger rise again but I spin around and usher him towards yet another sitting room. He applies his fake bravery and heads inside though I can feel him shuddering and shaking. He seems weaker than I remember him to be. Once again I ignore it and continue inside, he’s still close on my heels, matching my steps.

I want to leave. I want to protect him. I want to see him smile and laugh and joke and I want to . Hold him in my arms and love him. I want her to see a better life, a better world. I can hear myself shrieking inside. I need to escape. I must escape this insanity. This sickening unjust. The hate. I need to banish it from my life. Our lives.

Everyone opens their moustache-covered mouths and immediately I feel myself panicking.

“Who invited you?” One man shrieks. The man I used to love the most in the world. I stare back at him: a mere stranger. He stands up after slamming his alcohol filled up cup. The brown contents swirl around. I stare at him dumbfounded; astounded. I turn and press a hand against my husband and push him backwards and block the door with my body. The stranger approached me ahead of yells behind him. They haven’t reached his ears yet. He raises his fist and slams it into my stomach and I feel the air escape me quicker than I anticipate. I feel an arm dragging me backwards to the cold ground and the wails of my daughter fill my ears. I look briefly and see my husband step over me after I land. He pushes his hand forward towards the mass approaching. I hear a bellow of annoyance before the stranger plummets to the floor backwards. I hear glass break and I see bodies block the artificial light. I stand up after hearing thousands of footsteps approach.

I feel hot, humiliated tears roll down my cheek. I grab my child’s hand again and immediately lift her up into my protective embrace. She leans her head against me. I look around at the blur of bodies and find my husband being beaten by countless hands. I shriek and yell, kicking people out my way. A hand aims for my face. They miss me; they hit my child. Before I can protect her again someone clutches my throat and tightens their grip. I feel someone pulling my child away and I want to save her but I can’t. She drops to the floor and I watch in horror and pain as someone drives a knife towards her fair skin. I react faster than lightning. I manage to loosen the grip from my neck enough to retaliate and bring them down. I bend down and cover her as the knife drives its way into my back. I yell in pain but lift her up and dash to the front door, to the escape route.

Did I come to die? Did I come to a death camp? No. I came to my flesh and blood. The people who raised me and nurtured me and loved me and cared for me and cherished me and disowned me and hated me and forgived me and invited me. They’re liars. Murderers. Rotten sick s. The lot of them.

I see him run out bleeding from wounds on his head, his stomach. I hear a bang and I run forward after stuffing my child into the car. I keep running and hear the bangs and feel the whoosh of wind past my ears. Then he falls to the floor and crawls forward as I come towards him. He’s smiling at me awkwardly and I pull him forward. He stands- just about. I feel him tremor beneath me. The herd approaches. I order my husband to open the door. I kick him in. I jump in. I smash the door open. I run in, I start the engine. I reverse. I shriek as I hear more bullets plummet into the car. I see a burst of flame and behind it, I see him. The stranger. I see the stranger’s wife trying to pry the dirty weapon from his grip. It’s no use. He continues. I turn around and see my husband look at me with tired eyes. I look at my daughter. Surprisingly she stares back without any tears. Maybe the heat stopped them pouring out. I hold their hands for the last time.

So what? So what? So what I married a Chinese man? He is human. He’s not a different race. He’s not an alien. He’s a person. He was so willing. We were so willing. So loving. So promising. For death. For everything to do with death. Death is our escape. Death was always our happiness. The moment our lips touched to seal our fates, we sent ourselves straight to death. Death was just waiting to use it’s claws to attack us. It succeeded. Death won. Fate lost.