by Zhuoya Kuai

The line in front of the gynecology clinic was so long that I wasted a whole afternoon standing in the hallway, reading the posters on the wall. Hymenoplasty: One of the safest procedures to repair your hymen. Vaginoplasty: Restore a youthful, healthy vagina.

“Why is there no poster about menstrual cramps?” I asked the gynecologist.

“You have period pain?” he did not answer my question.

“That’s very normal for girls at your age. Does your mother have the same symptoms? Most menstrual cramps are genetic.”

“No.”

“It’s very normal,” my mother would say, watching me cry and scream in the middle of the night from the unbearable pain. She turned on all the lights in the house, except for the one in my room. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, I couldn’t see her face, and that made her sigh feel so much louder, echoing through the stillness of the night.

“Be quiet. People can hear you,” she said, standing by the door, watching me struggle. “Almost every girl has cramps. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” She paused, then added, as if trying to console me, “It’ll get better after you get married.”

She had never experienced dysmenorrhea herself, so she dismissed my pain, just like the gynecologist dismissed my question.

“What’s the cause of it?” I asked.

“Maybe because there are blood clots in your uterus, which cut off the oxygen flow. But it’s not always the same,” his is eyes flicked between the test results and the clock on the wall. “Just drink more hot water. The cramps won’t last long.”

That’s another thing my mother would say as I endured the endless pain. “Just bear with it. It’s not a disease.”

A familiar rage started to build in my stomach. I fixed my gaze on the doctor, my voice rising.

“When will it stop?”

“It depends. It’s not something I can give you a definite answer for.”

“Will it get better after I get married?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I swallowed my words.

“Listen, I can give you some ibuprofen, but you really have to...”

“Can I remove my uterus?”

His eyes finally stopped at my face: “What?”

“I said, can I remove my uterus? Since my uterus seems to be the problem.”

“No. It’s bad for you.”

It’s bad for you. I’ve heard this sentence a hundred times from my mother. When I wear something above my waist, when I’m not in bed by 10 pm, when I drink cold water, my mother always appears just in time, saying: “It’s bad for you. That’s why you have period pain.”

How could someone who had never experienced menstrual cramps understand the pain of it? The ache was sharp, stabbing, and relentless. It started deep in my stomach, then gradually spread throughout my entire body until it reached my head. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. The sensation of being pricked in my lower stomach made me want to tear at my skin, to rip my uterus out. When I described it to my mother, she thought I was being unreasonable.

There was no pain that humans couldn’t bear. It’s not surprising that she thought this way. After all, she had borne all her pain in silence. She remained quiet when her mother-in-law blamed her for giving birth to me instead of a son—a useless girl who would one day waste her uterus on another family’s bloodline. She stayed silent when her husband came home at 3 am every night without explanation, not wanting to be the one to start a fight. So, it’s no wonder that she stayed silent when she saw her daughter suffering from period pain. After all, it’s not a disease. It’ll pass. Just bear with it.

A hundred times I wanted to ask her why. Why bear all that pain when you had the chance to speak out? I cried louder, hoping that yelling would somehow release the pain, hoping she would understand my confusion through my screams. Of course, my madness only made the situation worse:

“Shut up! Everyone in this block can hear you! Just bear with it. It will disappear.”

“But...”

Before I could finish the sentence, my mother had already turned away, heading back to her room. I was left in the dark, consumed by the intermittent waves of pain until morning. No longer being manipulated by the extreme pain in my body, I became the “good daughter” again—quiet and submissive, eating breakfast with my head down without making a sound. My mother gazed at me for a long time, quietly.

How could a mother ignore her daughter’s pain? How could she just pretend it didn’t exist? I had to ask her. When I finally gathered all my courage to look into her eyes, my mother turned to my father.

“See? I told you she’d get better quickly. She should learn from her cousin. I bet he won’t make a scene over a little discomfort.”

Suddenly, the cramps came back to me.

Again.

Why did she have to make everything about my cousin? It was as if there was a girl-shaped hole bleeding in her heart, and she tried to fill it with someone else’s son. Did she even know that my cousin was more concerned about my health than she was?

On New Year’s Eve, while everyone gathered at my grandma’s house to celebrate, I was alone, hiding in the bedroom, enduring the constant pain and the endless shame of blood seeping out of my body. I was terrified of the looks my grandma might give me, or the way my mother would react if I said that my vagina was bleeding—because I was a pathetic daughter, and my mother would be hysterical over what she saw as negligible pain. This was something I had to bear.

My cousin was the only one who checked on me, a glass of milk in his hands.

“Where did you get that? I thought Grandma didn’t buy milk.”

“Actually, she does.” Suddenly, my kind and honest cousin started stammering. “But Grandma told me not to tell you because you like milk... she’s worried that if you find out, you’ll drink it all, and I won’t have any...”

“Get out.”

The sound of my voice cut through the dinner table. Everyone stopped eating and turned their attention toward me.

“Did you fight with your brother?” my grandma frowned.

“No,” I repeated what my brother had told me. I raised my head, ready to meet my mother’s eyes. But she turned away from me.

On the way home, I realized it was the first time she didn’t comment on my “l(fā)ittle discomfort.” In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. I endured the constant cramps in my lower stomach, keeping quiet.

From then on, I refused to visit my grandma on New Year’s Eve—or any eve of the year. My mother acquiesced to my decision. My father couldn’t care less, because he had another family to celebrate the New Year with. And my mother acquiesced to that, too.

The only one who couldn’t accept it was Grandma. She couldn’t bear that her daughter-in-law and granddaughter—who were supposed to be submissive—were now challenging her authority. Every New Year’s Eve, she called relentlessly. With each piercing ring of the bell, the familiar pain began to claw at my lower stomach again. I could hear her raspy voice tearing through the phone, slapping my mother’s face.

“Come to my house! How dare you ignore my calls? Tell your disrespectful daughter to talk to me. You useless women who can’t even keep your husband. Useless! Your daughter is just like you. Useless. Shame. Come to my place, now. Come and see everyone.”

My mother didn’t say a word. She didn’t even hang up the phone. Tears streamed from her eyes, but not a single sound escaped her lips. I could feel the mournful moan rising in her chest, deep, sorrowful, endless. She was enduring unbearable pain—the pain of being called worthless for not giving birth to a son; the pain of being blamed for not keeping a careless husband. She should’ve cried. She should’ve screamed. She should’ve shouted all the anguish she had been holding in. Yell out the torment, the humiliation they forced on her. Why didn’t she yell?

“Listen,” I snatched the phone from my mother’s hand. “Wait for me. I’ll come. I’ll come and tell you what you did to me. I’ll tell you what your son did to my mother.” The blood that should’ve been expelled from me surged back up to my throat. I spoke louder, each word louder than the last, as if my voice could push the pain out. “I’ll tell everything, to everyone. Just wait for me.”

I knew my mother was looking at me steadily. I raised my head and met her gaze. Suddenly, she broke down. She began to wail, so loud, so mournfully, like a dying old dog. The sound carried through the entire block. In her cry, the blood that had once been trapped inside me finally began to flow. My lower stomach still throbbed, but for the first time, when I lifted my head, I was able to meet my mother’s eyes.

Bluebell Magazine is a dynamic platform showcasing new talent from around the world. Our editors, from the UK, China, India, Zimbabwe and the US, met at the University of East Anglia’s Creative Writing Master’s Programme. We were inspired to build an international community of writers across genres who bring new perspectives to challenge, complicate and expand traditional narratives. We are looking for high-quality writing that pushes at intellectual, political and imaginative boundaries, drawing fresh voices into conversations across borders.

For this month’s submission call we want to know: What has been rattling around your head for decades that you’ve never gotten a chance to say? Perhaps you’d like to have the ear of a public figure, a celebrity, a friend of a friend. If you got the chance to tell anyone, dead or alive, anything, what would it be?

The editors at Bluebell Magazine are accepting poetry, nonfiction, and fiction stories about what you wish you said until December 1st.

Feel free to subscribe us on Substack: https://bluebellmagazine.substack.com/

Web: https://www.bluebellmag.com/

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