Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 556

Building of a Home
Sha Tin College, Chow, Vania - 15
My back was pressed stiffly against the grumble and gentle hum of the train. I badly needed to move. It
sounds unfathomable, but I did not dare to leave my seat, to raise myself so much as an inch from the
scratched plastic of a seat, for Mother had told me not to. She told me that the city was full of beasts: of
scoundrels who would ship me off to lands I’ve never heard of, of pickpockets who could leave me with just
the clothes on my bare back, of little old ladies with forks for tongues who could convince me into
purchasing anything.
I stared out the window in a futile attempt to distract myself, ravenously gulping in the bewitching scenery:
yellow speckled greens of never ending pastures, long winding streams that weaved in and out like children
running wild, the cloudless blue sky that has forever shielded me from the dangers of humanity. These little
gems of beauty had already been stolen from the city by soulness monsters that pump grey smoke from their
tops and by behemoths that see nothing but money- or so that’s what the village elders said.
I closed my eyes, imagining the familiar stroke of the Xinjiang wind touselling through my hair, ruffling it
like a playful father as I ran. The muddy paths thudded beneath my feet as I ran, arms pumping, legs
pushing, chasing after the backsides of my friends. Xi Li would holler at me from behind some distant tree,
laughing at me, his sister, for not catching up. I would surprise him from behind when I finally arrived,
jumping and wrapping my hands before his eyes, pretending I was the great grizzly bear of the elders’ tales.
Sometimes he would turn and tickle me until we both fell laughing onto the soft embrace of the earth;
sometimes he would pretend to be scared and run from the great bear; everytime I played this little game
with Xi Li, it would go a little differently, and that, his vast creativity, was my favourite part of it. It was like
asking for the mystery candy at the local candy store: you never know what you get, but everything you do
get tasted like heaven.
When I awoke, the countryside had left. The ferns that had glimmered ever so slightly like the waving
fingers of a leaving friend had alas made their departure. In their place, now stood forbidding inky green
trees that towered over the speeding train, casting ominous shadows. It was like playing a game of tag with
sunshine as it flashed in and out and from behind its oppressor, winking at us tauntingly when it made its
flashy appearance. I had fallen asleep on the train- a danger which Mother compared to leaving the front
door wide open at night. The city people were slick and slippery, falling asleep on the train was like waving
a sign begging people to come rob you of your every penny. Nervously, I patted down my pockets, rifled
through every one of my ten compartments where I had hidden pennies, even dug my hand into the depths
of my backpack to feel for the reassurance of my favourite scarf. It was only when each and every item was
accounted for did I look around and feel a little safer.
The train eventually pulled into a stop at a station. Clad in iron armour, the train station resembled a prison
more than a place of transit. Everyone around me stood up: the young businessman in his spotless suit
twisted at this wristwatch officiously before he and his briefcase stepped out the door, the mother and her
child that had wailed dreadfully through the tunnels too stepped out the door, even the hobbling elderly
who had struggled to open her bottle of water mid-journey left. Before I knew it, I was the only one left.
I finally worked up the courage to leave the train, heart-pounding a little with anticipation and fear, I set
foot in ‘The Pearl of the Orient’- that’s what the elders called Hong Kong. A flurry of people, some
Chinese, some Western, some from places of my wildest dreams pushed past me, fighting and clamouring
their way to the lift. Hastily, I followed them, squeezing myself into the moving box just as the doors slid to
a close.
Despite the waves of travellers that flooded in with each train, immigration was but a breeze. The officers
were like robots: hands moving at the speed of light with pristine accuracy; voice a clear monotone, simple
and precise; yet face a mask of stoic boredom. Most of my friends back home would hate it, the lack of the
communal feeling of individual care and attention. They would complain that this city dehumanized them,
diminishing them into nothing but a number on a flashing screen. Normally I would have agreed with
them, but today, today I was a little thankful to be overlooked. Was I to nod at the man behind the counter?
Or smile? Or simply wait like an obedient little lamb for his instruction? In this land where everyday clothes