Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 25

“You know, even though you only joined yesterday, I feel more comfortable talking to you than
anyone else here,” she says. All of a sudden I feel too nervous to say anything. Like I’ll say something that’ll
change her mind about me.
“How did you get in here?” I ask.
“I stole cucumbers from a market. I’ve been here for a month and my release is in 5.”
“Mine too,” I say. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your parents?” She looks at
her shoes.
“We were starving. My parents were sick and needed food. So I stole the cucumbers. It didn’t help
though. I was 13.”
“I’m so sorry. My parents died before they could name me. I was found by a woman that raised
me.”
After 4 more hours of work, it’s lunch break. I run up to the dorm with Christina for our 1 hour
break. She teaches me a game and we play for a while.
This is how it was for 5 months. Me and Christina became close. We’ve been talking about what
we will do when we get out of here. Christina said that she wants to visit her old house and so do I.
Christina and I are in my dorm, talking.
“Christina and no-name,” says a voice on a speaker. “Please pack your bags and come to Sir’s
office.”
We grab our bags, which have been packed for days and sprint into Sir’s office.
“Congratulations,” says Sir. “You are being released and transferred to an orphanage.”
After we arrive at the orphanage, we start towards Christina’s old house.
“This is it,” she says looking around. It’s a small shack with 3 mattresses inside it. I can see tears
swimming in her eyes. I’ve never seen Christina cry before but the memories this place holds must be awful.
“Come on,” I say, steering her out. She throws her arms around me and buries her face in my
shoulder. I freeze. I want to comfort her and say that it’s alright. But I’m frozen. She looks at me. Her face
streaked with tears.
We wander the streets when Christina suddenly says, “That lady is staring at you.” I follow her
gaze and see a woman approaching us.
“Young man, you are the spitting image of George Shaw,” she says. “Are you related?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I’m looking for my parent’s house. I’ve spent the last 14 years in Australia
and came to see where my parents lived before they died.”
“In Australia?” she asks, curiously. “I think there’s someone you should meet.”
She leads us to a cosy house and I see a couple, sitting in the garden. The man looks a lot like me.
“Hi, Clarissa. And who might these guests be?” says the woman.
“This boy says he’s lived in Australia for the past 14 years and his parents passed away there,” says
Clarissa.
“It can’t be,” says the woman. “ George, he is the spitting image of you.”
“I think it is, Alison,” says Clarissa.
“Jason?” says the woman. “Is that you?”
“I’m sorry you must be mistaken,” I say. “I don’t have a name.”
“14 years ago,” starts the man, “myself and Alison went to Australia on vacation. Alison gave birth
there but we were told by the nurse, Helena, that the baby died in the process.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you say Helena?”
“Yes. Is that name familiar to you?”
“She was my guardian. She told me that my mom died giving birth and my father died a few
months before. Therefore no-one had named me and she wasn’t bothered to.”
“It is you then!” yells Alison, with tears in her eyes.
“Does this mean that… you’re my parents? And that my name is Jason?” Now I’m crying too.
We run into a family hug. I’ve been waiting to find my name my whole life but I never imagined that I’d
find my parents, too.