Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 256

sucking in breath and broke into a sprint. Well, not really a sprint, more like a very fast amble. The house
steadily grew larger. In no time at all, I was screaming manically and slamming my hands on the sign
hanging from the door that read, ‘Manor of the West’. For a while, I understood myself, but slowly my
words became garbled and a mess of vowels and consonants that didn’t quite string together.
For what felt like hours, but was probably a few minutes, I stood there, repeatedly hitting the door.
My fists collided with the door again, and again, and again. The hope that previously gripped me, slowly
slipped away. I sank down to the ground and from by vantage point observed the house. It was startlingly
well kept, windows clean and polished, wood smooth and even, roof beautifully tiled. The porch I lay on
was also very clean, probably for my sole benefit. I heard, a week ago, that the Manor of the West was a
house that killed you, in fact, the only place in the world where you could die, so naturally, I plotted a
course for it. And here I was, at the Manor of the West, sobbing on the floor because I couldn’t die. I must
have been a pitiful sight.
5 MINUTES BEFORE
Rousing me from self-pity, a painfully loud creak made me flinch and I lurched in the direction
that the sound originated from, but as I lurched my nose came into contact with a black, leather boot. I
recoiled.
“Oh my-,” I rapidly shut my mouth at the sight of the tall man standing over me. He was
handsome, in a rugged, messy sort of way, with wrinkled clothes and wrinkled skin around his eyes that
somehow worked for him. He had dark, dark eyes that vaguely reminded me of black holes, empty and
dangerous.
“Here to die?” he wondered, roughly jabbing my side with his foot.
I stuck my hand up, “Absolutely.” Staggering to my feet I stared at him, “Sign me up to death.” I
coughed awkwardly.
He smirked at me and opened the door wider behind him and pulled me through into a cavernous
room. There was a lone chair in the centre of the room, a rocking chair. It made me smile, much like the
ocean did. The room had black walls and hung on them were exquisite paintings, displaying every colour
imaginable. One was of a beautiful woman with brown hair, smiling a mysterious smile. Another illustrated
the sky, the stars swirling above a small town. I briefly forgot about the chair and stared at the paintings, they
were unreal in their beauty, almost ethereal.
2 MINUTE BEFORE
“Sit in the chair,” the man demanded. I tiptoed across the floor towards the chair and did as he
asked, folding my legs underneath me. “Ready?”
“Indeed!” I answered cheerfully. In truth, I didn’t feel cheerful. I felt… conflicted? Lost? Confused?
But why?
I wanted to die. I really wanted to die.
Didn’t I?
On the edge of my periphery I saw the man exit the room from a door I couldn’t discern from the
wall.
THE MINUTE
Ok, I wanted to die. Life was pointless. Insipid. Futile. Inconsequential. Lame. It had been my
whole life. But could I make it better? In the East life was routine. Here in the West everything seemed dull
and broken and bare, surely life wouldn’t be great. But was I trying hard enough to make it better, to really,
truly be happy? Did I really want to die or was I just bored of living my life. If I tried harder, would life
improve? Maybe it would. Didn’t I owe it to myself to find out? I should’ve. Definitely. I needed to at least
atte-