Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 269

Portraits
Yew Chung International School-Secondary, Lo, Wai Man Michelle – 14
P
atient Sun Wukong?”
Perched on a stool, the patient peered at the partially finished painting before him, his face
half-buried in shadow. He stooped down toward the pots of vibrant paint scattered around his feet, the
strings of his hospital gown rustling in a soft susurrous as he did so. Chipped at the edges and worn to their
bases, the pots were arranged in a chaotic cacophony of fading colour, like an unruly bed of wilting
wildflowers.
“Sorry.” He tapped his head with a finger. “Sun Wukong isn’t in right now.”
Dark eyes, like caverns hewn into stone, bore into mine. A blurry image of Patient Sun’s medical
file flashed into my mind, with the words Dissociative Identity Disorder emblazoned across the header. I
inhaled sharply. “In that case, who are you?”
His raspy voice was like a knife scraping against a whetstone. “I am the Monkey King.”
Laughter bubbled up in my throat at the irony of the situation. “My name is Xuanzang,” I said.
“I’m your psychiatrist.”
The Monkey King curled his lip and stared up at me in displeasure, then turned back to his
artwork. I edged closer, diffident, and watched as the canvas bloomed with colour beneath the strokes of his
slim brush.
“What are you painting?”
“Myself, of course,” came the curt reply. His hands flowed across the painting as if he were a
conductor, blending pale peaches and greys into a harmonious symphony. “I only ever paint self-portraits.”
He nodded around him at the many pictures that furnished the cracked and yellowing walls.
Hundreds of faces, all with the same features, stared back at us, watching silently. Ice trickled down my spine
- every portrait seemed familiar in a way that I couldn’t quite place.
I laughed, the sound strained. “Well, Sun Wukong - Monkey King… ah, is there anyone else in
there?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, there are only two identities,” he said, sharply, and flicked his brush,
sending crimson poppies blooming onto the white canvas.
“Sorry. Well, as I’m here to help you -” I laughed again and fidgeted.
The Monkey King bowed his head and began coaxing streaks of watercolour into features, eyes
fixed upon his work. “I’m a painter, not an invalid. I don’t need your help.”
The laughter died in my throat. “I don’t think you understand…” I swallowed. “Are you aware of
the effects of dissociative identity disorder?”
“Yes, I am,” he scoffed. “The real question is, are you?”
“What?”