Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 270

“Never mind.” With an impetuous wave and a grim chuckle, he dismissed me. “I’m sure you’ll
figure it out soon enough.”
*
“Why do you paint all your self-portraits as characters from Journey to the West ?”
Sun Wukong - the real Sun Wukong - beamed at me. “It was my favourite folktale as a child,” he
said. “Quite ironic, when you think about it!” His face was wreathed in a sunny smile - utterly different
from the Monkey King’s cold, callous expressions.
Upon the easel, the canvas dripped with viscous oil paint. A pair of melancholy eyes, framed by
wrinkles and strands of grey hair, glared out of the painting. The grimacing monkey that was portrayed bore
a bronze circlet upon his head. Its spikes glittered with crimson beads and dug into his skull as if it were a
crown of thorns.
The painting next to it, however, was completely different.
In bright watercolour, this canvas depicted the same monkey lounging in a river. There were the
same empty eyes and the same hoary hair; but unlike before, his mouth was quirked in a merry smile and
the gleaming circlet of gold sat on his head with a jaunty air.
My eyebrows knitted together. Both figures held the same features, but there was a strange disparity
between them. One was grim, one was happy; one was angry, one was merry; one was alone, one was
surrounded by friends.
How could one person be so different?
Oh.
“These are self-portraits of your personalities ,” I mused aloud.
Sun Wukong clapped his hands in cheerful affirmation and gazed up at me with a bright smile. “Do
you like them?”
Nodding in wonder, I gazed at the myriad of paintings around the cell. On one side there was the
Monkey King, clasping his iron staff in clenched fists, soaring through the sky atop a misty cloud, fanning
mountains consumed by flames; and then there was Sun Wukong, tumbling from the treetops, cracking
jokes with joy and laughing raucously around a roaring campfire.
A soft sigh escaped me. Within those brushstrokes was his soul - framed against the wall, bared for
all the world to see, but for none to understand.
Something glinted and caught my eye then - a flash of dull gold. I pointed at the lonely, unfamiliar
portrait in the corner, brow furrowed. “Who’s that?”
Crouched inside the casing, a painted figure was hunched over in despair. His face was masked by a
matted mop of hair. I hovered over the ancient ink illustration, faded to a dreary crimson brown from the
old vivid red that shown through here and there in patches that had been protected from sunlight. Its frame
was cracked and coated in dust. A strong sense of deja-vu stirred my memory.
“Do I know him?” I asked. That silver necklace was familiar somehow…
Sun Wukong gave me a long, searching look. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it; after
a brief pause, he slumped back and stared at the blank ceiling.