Waiting
Yew Chung International , Yu , Cynthia - 15
A
s the dawn fights its way out of the night , Shanghai forcefully inhales another broken breath .
The stale scents of perfume and cigarette smoke weave through the streets lined with small shops , mixed in with the morning fog . Dirt-covered fingernails dig into a thin shawl in hopes of finding warmth in solitude . Bare feet , calloused from nights of sleepless wander in merciless weather , patter astray in a rhythm to a deranged waltz that the city upon the sea dances to . They never see that under her heavily drawn makeup is a fatigued young woman , just a year over thirty ; at this time of day , she counts the profit she has made from the night before and grasps in her palm- not a death sentence , but a sentence that guarantees her suffering to last another day . The life before she escaped being sold off from her parents is heaven compared to what it is now .
Seven kilometers away , a pair of small hands dart in and out of pockets and bags . The narrow figure hides in alleyways , waiting for the next opportunity . He waits for rare blessings : businessmen in blazers and top hats who wear leather watches , women with neatly weaved hair with lipstick red as ripe dates , donned in qipao lined with refined patterns , complimented by a pair of earrings flickering weakly in the light .
In the central district , the internal gears of Shanghai turn simultaneously , creating a distant rumbling , as though the city is a great creation of artificial intelligence in its great wake . Englishmen converse promptly as they walk to work in the midst of the regal European-American financial buildings that haughtily stand , overlooking the harbor . Statues lining the Bund reproachfully stare at the other side in a unified coldness and hostility that reflects the despondent sky in all its dark glory .
It is no place for an orphan- the only individual with a soul in the lost world . She crosses , silently , every bridge , road , and street , looking into the fog of the people ’ s minds . Not even the men in uniforms stop by to question her presence in the metropolitan area . Nor do the brisk pedestrians as they pass her without second thought .
A caterwauling shatters the mundane humming of the district like a glass bowl upon contact with a marble floor .
The men and women turn to see a boy , running deftly along the railings of the harbor with a black wallet tightly gripped in his hands . A middle-aged Frenchman soon follows , waving his briefcase in utter panic and outrage , sprouting coarse words of his language as he tries to keep up . Few young American men smirk as they watch the thief shrewdly weave through the crowd , where he is likely to disappear into the labyrinth of converging paths .
The orphan , as she passes by the Bank of Taiwan , sees the boy , and his eyes are alive with fresh fear . Shocked by the sudden dyes of emotion standing out in a mundane crowd , she gestures towards him to follow in her direction . He sees it .
Two children are running now .
Into the labyrinth they run , the streets that they know so well that are permanently mapped in their minds . A series of sharp veering leads them to a crossroads , where men , women and children swarm the streets in a frenzy . They know the businessmen do not veer into places like these . They only stay along the banks .
“ Thank you .” the boy reaches out his palm and offers a handful of coins to the orphan . She shakes her head , but cocks her head to one side curiously .
“ Did you steal them ?” she asks . Her voice is thin and weak , as if she hasn ’ t spoken in years , but it offers no hint of surprise .