Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 203

With a grunt Lee took me by the hem of my sleeve, and started dragging me back into the crowds, back into the
town, away from our walls.
I shrieked, pulling myself from her firm grip, clawing at her arm. I broke free finally, and quickly disappeared
into the shades of the crowd. I could hear her voice echoing in the crowd, her frustration and fear reflected onto
her desperation to find me, but as I ran faster and faster her voice finally resembled nothing more than a whisper
in the wind.
I didn’t stop until I reached the deserted piece of greenery, where the walls were closer, and the cracks on the
walls more distinct.
Only they weren’t the walls that have protected us anymore.
What once had stood tall and proud at the end of Shanghai now turned into a pile of ashes, the broken pieces of
the stone bricks lying around bashful and still. The air was brimming with dusts and flakes, it’s no longer quiet
uptown.
When the approaching men in red and blue came into sight, I slowly backed away from the debris, before
breaking off into a sprint down the streets. But my little legs only took me a few steps when a loud explosion
landed behind me and I tumbled and fell.
And then it was darkness.
When I opened my eyes, the sky was dyed in a shade of grey and blue, and the streets were desolated. With
aching arms I lifted myself off the ground, my limbs covered in dry dust. I rubbed my scalp, and tried to shook
off the cobwebs. Slowly, I dragged my body back home, my legs hardly bearing my chest that was now
lead-weighted.
Home?
The place I once proudly called home was now shadowy and dilapidated. Our once humble vegetable yard was
now stripped of its abundance of cabbages and carrots. They lay abandoned by the trenches, cold and barren.
Our door was swung open with force as it now hung precariously by the ledge. Our “fu” word that was written
by Papa was ripped off, the red shreds dangling like a rag doll.
The house was deserted, something I have always feared since a young age. No love, no one to come home to.
Nothing.
Slowly I stepped into the room. All the furniture in the house was destructed in a way- the dining table was
flipped over, the plates scattered on the floor. Our chairs, the three chairs that linked our family together during
every meal, the legs fractured apart, a broken family. Flowers, the beautiful Peonies that were once placed nicely
in a china vase were now lying on the floor, the petals scattered around the stems. The china vase which was a
wedding present from Papa now lay in broken pieces around the petals. It was a horrible scene.
It wasn’t home anymore.
Yet, my innocent heart still failed to acknowledge what really was going on. I was confused. Did Mama have a
tantrum again? She was always in a bad mood these days.
“Mama?” I called out, my small voice echoing in the deserted house. I gazed around the room, reading the
cracks on the wall as if it would give me some sort of hint of where Mama was.
Minutes passed and… nothing. I started panicking, I ran across the rooms, crouching and crawling, looking high
and low, still, there was no sight of my beloved mother. It was when I got to the front yard did the emotions of
fear and anxiety kicked in and I started screaming “Mama! Mama!”
Memories flashed back to olden days, when our family was one and Mama was happier. As a child I was less
attracted to strangers. In fact, I was terrified of them. I would much rather play with myself than play with other
children of the village. However, sometimes, drawing on sand or playing with pebbles were just not enough.
Mama and I would play together whenever she’s free. I would sit by her side as she sewed fabric together, my
eyes watching in wonder as those threads weaved in and out of the needle, until my torn clothing was good as
new, a patch added as an addition decoration. After that we would play hide-and-seek at home, giggling as I