It was my third birthday.
A harsh drought had descended upon us, and every able-bodied villager, my family included, was toiling in the fields, leaving me home alone.
They had left me a bowl of wild chicken blood, a familiar offering, to stave off my hunger.
Though only three, I was bright and well-behaved for my age, often entertaining myself in the yard. I was used to solitude.
No one wanted to play with me - not that my family would allow it.
They called me a freak, and the villagers, well aware of my blood-drinking and the nightly gifts from foxes and weasels, shunned me like a bad omen.
On that particular day, as I was gleefully watering a colony of ants with my own urine ( a fascinating pastime, I assure you), the sound of children's laughter reached me, stirring a longing within me.
It had been three years of isolation.
The wary eyes and wide berth given by villagers had taken their toll. I craved a playmate, someone, anyone, to talk to.
I ran to the gate, drawn by the sound, and peered through a crack.
There, in front of our yard, on a mound of sand meant for our neighbor's new house, five or six children were playing, their joyous shouts like a siren call.
At three, it seemed simple enough: join them, play. I dashed over.
One of the children screamed at the sight of me.
An older boy pointed and yelled, "It's the freak! The blood-drinking freak! You'll get bad luck talking to him!"
They scattered like startled birds, leaving me alone, their toys abandoned on the sand.
Sadness flickered, but I could play by myself. It was alright.
As I picked up a discarded shovel, a voice piped up from the other side of the sandpile. "Want to play with me?"
A chubby boy, around my age, with two impressive snot trails dangling from his nose, smiled at me. His clothes were clean.
I beamed back. "Yes! Let's build a big house!"
This little boy, unburdened by fear, remained.
We dug and built, sitting on the warm sand in our open-crotch pants, lost in our own world.
He produced a piece of candy and offered it to me. "Candy! Sweet..."
I'd only ever tasted blood, but I popped it into my mouth. It had no flavor.
Wanting to reciprocate his kindness, I said, "I have good food! I'll get it!"
I fetched the bowl of chicken blood.
The little boy watched in curiosity as I demonstrated, the crimson liquid staining my lips.
He giggled, and I giggled too.
He took the bowl, but his small hands fumbled, and the blood spilled over him.
My food! Wasted! My heart ached with a familiar emptiness.
A shriek ripped through my despair.
"You freak! You demon! You're poisoning my son!" A woman, eyes blazing, materialized beside us.
She seized me, flinging me across the yard with a violence that sent pain shooting through my small body.
I lay whimpering on the ground, catching glimpses of green eyes peering from the bushes, watching us.
The woman, frantic, was inspecting her son.
He was unharmed, just drenched in blood.
It did little to quell her fury.
"You demon child!" she snarled, delivering a sharp kick to my ribs. "How dare you feed my son blood! I'll kill you!"
A three-year-old, kicked, helpless, the pain too great even for tears.
Just then, my grandfather arrived, hoe in hand.
Seeing my attacker, he charged forward, shoving the woman back.
"Ma's wife, what are you doing to my grandson?!"
"Look what this freak did!" she screeched. "He fed my son blood! If anything happens to him, your whole family will pay!"
My grandfather, gathering me into his arms, his heart clenching at my cries, looked at the little boy and recoiled.
The child was covered in blood, head to toe - a ghastly sight. Harmless to me, but potentially dangerous to other children.
My grandfather knew we weren't blameless.
He apologized profusely, carrying me towards home.
The woman was relentless, blocking our doorway, her string of insults drawing a curious crowd.
I saw green eyes gleaming from the bushes, fixed on us.
"Xiao Jie," my grandfather said, setting me down, "didn't I tell you to stay home? Why did you run out?"
Xiao Jie was my nickname, given to me because of the fortune teller, Wu, and my prophesied tribulations.
"I...I wanted to play," I sobbed. "He gave me candy, and I gave him my food..."
My grandfather sighed.
A child's heart…so simple. Sharing what was precious to them. No malice intended.
My parents arrived. A scolding ensued, a stern warning: I was never to leave the house again.
Everyone thought the matter was settled.
It was just the beginning.
The next morning, they found Ma's wife dead on the hillside, her body ravaged, as if by wild animals.
Bite marks, gashes, not an inch of her spared- her foot, the one she'd used to kick me, gnawed to the bone.