Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 88

Scapegoat
International College Hong Kong, Chan, Alison - 15
1.
“Y
ou can’t tell anyone,” was the only hushed whisper I could comprehend in the filthy
darkness.
There was a brief pause, before a muffled voice penetrated the dead Shanghai
air in reply, as I squinted at the peeling ceiling I could barely descry in vain attempt to
catch my older brother’s incoherent conversation. When Zhang Wun had told me he met the love of his life,
Chen Guang was the last person I had expected it to be. I shoved the flimsy, roughed up blanket off my upper
torso irritably.
There were rumours that Chen Guang had broken numerous laws; I once heard that she had engaged
to a drug dealer. There was always gossip floating around our small town, and she seemed to be in the centre of it
being one of the few businesswomen in our city. Apparently, she lost an enormous sum of our business money
from investing into a scam, going to drastic measures like stealing and manipulating customers to earn back the
money she had lost. Despite that, my brother was incredibly optimistic about their relationship and her ugly past,
ignoring all the voiced suspicions when they had begun seeing each other.
I had once confronted Chen Guang, when my brother had first begun to ditch our dinners to meet up
with her, making it clear that she could not manipulate my brother for money, although she protested against my
accusation heartily.
The faint voice seemed to emit a sound of resolution.
I shifted my weight onto my elbows and ripped my plastered body off the bed as a subtle sheen of
perspiration trickled down my neck. I heaved my legs out from under the gauzy sheet, as the thick air gravitated
my blistered feet to the hard floor.
Although my ear was pressed against the door, I still couldn’t make out any of the whispers exchanged
during this late night rendezvous. There was a momentary pause as my calloused fingers ran across the doorknob;
they had been situated by my bedroom door for over a minute.
My cramped hand twitched in agitation, and my neck was growing unbearably stiff. With a tortoiselike
retract of my hand I shifted my weight onto my other leg, but the scuffed floorboard underneath my soles let out
an unfortunate whine.
The soft whispers fell silent.
Frozen, my tired body reacted out of reflex as I clambered into bed briskly.
All the muscles on my back tensed up as I heard the shuffling from outside, “Zhan Ping?”
I remained silent with clenched eyelids and waited, my heart hammering against my chest. After a
moment of cold silence the door was firmly closed, and I let out a shaky breath of air
2.
I tried to treat the next morning as I would any other. Grabbing three porcelain spoons from our
utensil-filled cupboard, I set it by the bowls of steaming congee and knocked airily on Zhang Wun’s door as a
routine form of unspoken communication as I passed by, before heading into the washroom.
He was sitting at the table in a casual manner, with his legs sprawled out and arm draped around Chen
Guang’s usual battered seat, as I came out. It had where I used to sit before she moved into our home.