Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 43

As time passed it only worsened. My home was requisitioned by the Japanese Army and the rest of my savings
waned, until I found myself scraping together barely enough to stay alive. Holes festered themselves into my clothing,
my hair grew out of style and I reeked of litter.
I resorted to scrounging for free meals in the market, prowling through the narrow alleyways in search of prey.
“Miss Yu, you have been standing outside for an unusually long time. Is everything alright?” Mr. Dong asked,
his voiced tinged with concern.
“Oh – everything is fine,” I answered. “I’m just waiting for Pa to return.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit that
I was now homeless.
“Oh,” he replied curtly, a quizzical look plastered across his face. Furrowed brows framed deep-set eyes that
bore into my soul, but he said no more. In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, I twiddled my thumbs, playing with
the pearl ring on my little finger.
Eventually, I grew tired of waiting; but the thought of Pa returning became the only reason that I persisted. My
hope dangled precariously by a thin thread, threatening to come loose from the fringe of my QiPao.
Soon my nightmare became a reality. My final morsels dwindled to nothing. I had no choice but to sell my
possessions. The ring was not an option; I was not ready to let go of the last physical remnant of my lost father. So I
decided to sell the only my only remaining asset: my body.
Time was a thief; he stole my dignity.
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The building loomed before me. It boasted an imposing façade, but it wasn’t how I remembered it to be. When
the war came hurtling in, it had brought along with it a barrage of gunshots and a flurry of commotion. The building’s
façade had become marred by the scars of war, with flakes of paint scraped away by the constant fighting and bullets
lodged in its once whitewashed walls (now an ugly shade of tar-brown), like the wrinkles on an old man’s face.
I approached the weathered oak door, running my fingers along its grain. It was flanked by marble lions on
either side that seemed to welcome me back home. Only this time there was a spine-tingling coldness in their stone
eyes.
I inhaled deeply, mustering the last trickles of courage within me, and pushed.
A flood of emotion surged through me as familiar scents assaulted me from all sides. It was unmistakably
redolent of my birthday meal: the aroma of porridge, steamed buns and dumplings pervaded the air. I was on the verge
of tears, gripping on with all my might, but I felt my clammy hands slipping.
I bit my lip to stifle the tears. My vision clouded and morphed into nebulous blotches. Scenes from my
childhood played out before my eyes like a movie of my life story. Pivotal moments flashed by: my pudgy fingers