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I Am a Male Nanny
墨書 Inktalez
My name is Li Fuming. I am 44 years old, once a laid-off worker, then a male caregiver, and now a murderer. But who knows the pain behind my actions?
On November 1, 2001, the weather in Jinan had turned chilly. In the unit of the Cultural West Road Community, the heating was radiating warmth, mingling with the scents of disinfectant and medicine. I was wiping the body of the paralyzed old man on the bed; this was my thirty-seventh day working in this home. I only wanted a job to help with household expenses.
After being laid off, I faced numerous obstacles until an old colleague informed me that a family needed a male caregiver to look after a paralyzed elder. "Though male caregivers are rare, this old man weighs over 180 pounds; no woman can handle him. Besides, the pay isn't bad—800 a month, with meals and accommodation included." Upon hearing that figure, I agreed without hesitation.
"Are you doing this on purpose? My father's bedsores have become infected! Did you even follow the doctor's orders to turn him every two hours?" My hands froze, and my temples throbbed. Ms. Zhang was at it again.
With her sharp voice, she stood at the door, hands on her hips. I didn't respond; I simply continued my work in silence.
"I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?" Ms. Zhang stepped closer. "Are you just being lazy? You can't even handle such a simple task—what use are you?" She snatched the towel from my hands and threw it on the floor. "Get out of my way! I'll do it myself! Eight hundred bucks wasted on an ungrateful wretch!"
I stood frozen in place, my expression darkening. My hands trembled slightly as I stared at the filthy towel on the ground. I wanted to explain that the old man had diarrhea last night and I barely slept, changing the sheets three times. I wanted to say that every day I either bathed him or cooked for him, leaving no time even to step out for a cigarette.
I want to say that I have tried my best...
But I said nothing.
"Why are you still standing there? Go to the kitchen and prepare lunch. Remember, the old man's porridge needs to be cooked well!"
Ms. Zhang's back was turned to me, her tone laced with barely concealed disdain.
I gritted my teeth and turned towards the kitchen.
For thirty-seven days, I had endured this kind of humiliation every day, all for that eight hundred yuan, for my son's tuition fees.
At middle age, I had no room left for choices.
I busied myself in the kitchen, and through the small window, I saw Ms. Zhang finish feeding the old man his medicine, close the door behind her, and return to her bedroom for an afternoon nap.
This was the only quiet moment in the house each day.
I paused my work, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes to rest.
Suddenly, a small hammer hanging on the radiator caught my eye; it was what I had used a couple of days ago to fix the old man's bedside table.
I picked up the hammer and weighed it in my hand; its heavy head and cold touch gave me a strange sense of satisfaction.
My gaze then fell on the knife beside the cutting board.
For some reason, a thought flashed through my mind: how wonderful it would be if Ms. Zhang could never speak again and could no longer humiliate me.
Finally, I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the hammer, and quietly walked towards Ms. Zhang's bedroom.
My heart raced, and sweat trickled down my forehead.
The door was unlocked; I gently pushed it open and saw Ms. Zhang lying on her side in bed, breathing evenly—clearly fast asleep.
I noticed the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and her tightly furrowed brow.
In that moment, I hesitated.
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