Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 347

“Yes.” he admits, but stiffens up defensively, frowning. “But the rich are corrupt. They don’t know how to use money, so I cannot see why they need it. I, however, have a sister to take care of.” “Then save it for your sister.” the eight-year old girl takes his fingers and closes them in a fist. “I don’t have a family, so I cannot see why I need it.” Reluctantly, he does, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m sorry I can’t take care of you, either. My sister and I have already taken up all the space. But if I could, I would.” The orphan reassures him with a smile, filled with cerulean and scarlet hues that mix in a frenzy with such flamboyance that it pierces into the boy’s heart, right to the core. “That won’t be necessary. Your sister is more important. Besides, I can fend for myself. Have been, as well.” To demonstrate, she spreads out her arms. They part ways from there. As she continues to wander absently, sounds of jeering men fill her ears. At the corner of a pillared building is a crowd, pointing at a thirty-year old woman with lidded eyes who looks on blankly, taking no notice of the insults being thrusted at her. Her state of mind is already in oblivion. Drawing closer, the men notice the orphan. “Little girl…” “She looks like she’s homeless.” “It’s likely she will grow up to be like that disgrace,” one of them sneers. Suddenly, the woman’s eyes go into focus, and her knees abandon the weight of her body as she crashes onto the pavement. “Yi-er…” her broken voice croaks out. “Yi…er . ” “What’s that, you say?” a man says. “Is she insane? We should go before she strikes out at us!” he proceeds to laugh heartily, as if this were a social gathering and he had just made a joke worth of priceless value. “Tch! She looks pitiful enough. Let’s leave her as she is.” The group of men disperse, leaving slivers of spit as they slowly walk away. The orphan runs over and kneels down, wiping away the saliva from the woman’s bruised face, but her wrist is gently taken by the latter. “You are…Yi-er?” “No, just a wanderer.” The girl answers in bewilderment at the older woman’s question. “Is Yi-er your daughter? Do you want me to find her?” The sharply drawn eyebrows of the woman furrow, and she closes her eyes. “I lost her since birth…and her brother too, just a month older. I need to find them…I need…” “You need to find a place to sleep.” An idea strikes the girl. “You can sleep where I do. It’s no mansion, but it’s dry. But you need to walk there.” There is no choice for the woman but to do so. The world is blind to need, and that blindness purges the world of its color. ... The woman has slept at night the first time in almost a decade. As the souls of the people stretch over the sky along with the clouds, she rises. Beside her, the orphan continues to doze. Tenderly, the woman caresses the child’s cheek, sending a silent prayer to God, a new religion introduced to her by a kindly Englishman, that at the same time, her children would feel her touch. Faith is just another fragment of wishful thinking to her. Her suffering is not about to last. In the obliviousness of the city, men in helmets flood the area. But even the ignorance of Shanghai dissipates as gunshots decorate the air.