Motherly Love

Scattered rays of sunlight filtered in through the room's sole window, casting shadows on the wall. Ryung was mixing paint at his desk. His feet were bare, toes sunk deep in a maroon rug. The rug was extra warm from the pipes running under the floorboards.

"Open up, now!" His mother called. Ryung wondered what she wanted. It wasn't common for her to interrupt him on a weekend.

He unlocked the door. His mother had a yellow sun dress on, which was surprising. Most days she was wearing her pants suit, even when she was off work. "Hello, mother. What can I help you with?" He asked.

"I'm very proud of you, son!" She said, smiling widely. This made Ryung's hackles rise. His mother never praised him.

"Ugh, thank you?" He said.

"Your friend is here now. Why haven't you invited him over before now?" She practically crooned.

"Friend?" Ryung asked. It couldn't be Tim. He really hoped it couldn't be Tim. Ryung had never told Tim where he lived.

"Tim, of course. He's told me all about how close you two are!" She exclaimed excitedly. Ryung spent a moment trying to process this and failed spectacularly. His mother hated everyone, especially 'foreigners'.

"Mother, three weeks ago you lectured me for an hour about American imperialism." Ryung pointed out.

"Don't attribute the failings of a country to an individual. Tim is such a delightful child." His mother replied, without losing a beat.

Ryung scrambled to figure out a way to salvage the situation. Then it occurred to him that Tim had probably told his mother they were going to do something benign, like studying. If she knew that Tim planned to take him out for a night of debauchery, he was certain he could rely on her to get rid of Tim.

Ryung prepared his trump card. "Did you know Tim plans to take me to an establishment where innocent, practically unclothed young women are forced to serve avaricious business men for low wages?"

There was a long silence. And then his mother asked, "These girls, are they prostitutes?"

"Ugh, I don't think so." Ryung replied.

"Excellent. I'll put some money in your account. I'm sure you and Tim will have a fine time." She said.

"But mother, there will be a lot of alcohol. Something might happen." He objected. His mother had made it clear on numerous occasions how she felt about the improper behavior of today's youth.

"A mother's love is deeper than an ocean. " she replied enigmatically, still smiling.

That didn't make any sense. This situation was becoming very weird. It was clear Ryung was missing something.

His mother grabbed his arm and dragged him out of his room. "Come on, let's go!"

Before they entered the downstairs living area, his mother placed a firm hand to his chest, and motioned Ryung to stop.

His sister and Tim were sitting together on the black leather couch facing the large-screen tv, pounding on their controllers like maniacs. They were playing some sort of multi-player brawler. A male bulky axe wielding maniac and a female sorceress with absurdly large breasts fought a horde of skeletons in a gloomy cavern. The spell effects were seizure inducing.

He didn't know what his mother wanted him to see, but he wasn't comfortable with how close Tim was to his sister.

He walked into the room and said, "Hello, Tim," squeezing himself in between them.

Ryung felt something heavy drape over his shoulders. "Bro, I missed you!" Tim emoted. Ryung sent a silent prayer to his grandfather. He wanted to remove Tim's arm, but he wasn't willing to move.

"Ryung, go away." His sister said, with surprising force.

"What, sis, I'm not welcome?" He said teasingly.

"No." She replied. There was a finality to her tone that he was unused to and gave him pause.

Before he could think of a reply, his mother said, "Tim, you don't mind if He-Ran calls you Oppa, do you?"

What the fuck was she thinking? "I don't think that's appropriate, " Ryung objected, making a conscious effort to keep his tone civil.

Tim smiled, turned to Ryung's sister and said, "Give your Oppa a high five! We're practically family, after all." Tim and his sister proceeded to exchange a high five, Tim's left bicep pressing uncomfortably into Ryung's face, while his right arm clamped down on Ryung's shoulders.

"Ryung, why don't you come help me in the kitchen?" His mother said.

"I'm sorry, but Tim and I have to get going soon." He wanted to get Tim away from his sister as soon as possible.

"Surely you can spare a little time for your own mother, dear?" She gave him a look.

"No hurry bro, we're smashing this level. Your sister is incredible!" Tim added. His sister positively glowed at the compliment, a deep blush suffusing her cheeks.

Before he could express his displeasure, his mother's hand clamped down on his arm, her nails sinking deep enough to break skin. "Ryung, come with me. Now!" her voice rose slightly on the last word.

He reluctantly followed his mother down the hallway to the kitchen.

When they entered the kitchen, his mother walked over to the stainless steel counter, and rummaged around in one of the teak cabinets. She pulled out a spatula with a blue rubber appendage and turned to face him.

"What is this, Ryung?" she asked, stroking the spatula.

He wondered why she was asking him such a dumb question. "It's a cooking utensil."

His mother nodded. "Yes, but what kind of cooking utensil?"

"It's a spatula." he replied.

His mother nodded again. "And what color is the tip?"

Ryung said a quick prayer for patience to his ancestors. "It's blue."

"Wrong answer." She said. Before he could properly register it, she slapped his left cheek with the spatula.

Ryung touched his cheek with his hand. He felt a stinging pain; a welt was forming, and a bubbling anger began stirring in his chest.

"Ryung, let me ask you again. Look closely. What color is the spatula?" She trained her steely gaze on him.

"Mother, the spatula is blue." He reiterated, more forcefully.

She slapped his right cheek with the spatula. "You useless little shit. Think before you speak!"

"You know, this technically constitutes child abuse." He replied.

She just laughed at him. "Ryung, I'm only going to ask you one more time. What color is the spatula?" She said.

Ryung almost blurted out 'blue', but he stopped himself. Since he was a small child, his mother had subjected him to countless mind games. However, there was always a bizarre logic behind them. She wanted something from him, he just had to figure out what it was.

The spatula was definitely blue. So, the content of his original answer wasn't wrong. Based on his mother's second question, she probably wanted a more specific answer. "It's Byzantine Blue." He said, citing the name of the color shade.

His mother nodded. "Better. You aren't entirely hopeless." His mother turned around and put the spatula back in the drawer.

"Mother, as fun as your little 'games' are, I'd like to know why you're trying to pimp out my fourteen-year-old sister. This isn't King Gojong's court." He replied.

His mother let out a theatrical and deliberate sigh, "You're as dense as your father."

"Just get to the point, mother." he replied tersely.

"Ryung, your sister is special." She said dramatically.

"Of course she's special, she's my sister." He replied. Ryung was getting frustrated, this charade was ridiculous. Who knew what Tim was doing with his sister while he dealt with his deranged mother.

"No, you idiot. Why do I always have to spell things out for you? Your sister is Autistic, and very far on the spectrum." She replied.

"Oh." He had heard the term before. He vaguely understood the idea, but it didn't explain anything. "Sure, sis is a bit socially awkward. But I don't understand how this is relevant."

"Don't worry son, you play with your paints. I'll handle the understanding. But I expect you to show Tim a good time tonight. In fact, I got his cell number. And I plan to check up with him tomorrow. If he doesn't tell me he had the time of his life tonight, I'm going break one of your silly paintbrushes, grind up the remains, and then serve them up in a dish."

What a fucking bitch. Filial piety was all well and good, but even Confucius had to have a limit.

"Yes, mother." He said, grinding his teeth.