Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 466

Hell In Heaven
The Independent Schools Foundation Academy, Kwok, Yuet Yee Kleio - 11
A
man is slumped against the prison bars, his eyes desolate and bleak as he stares blankly at some ghostly apparition
only he can see. He sighs. Time is a foreign concept here in the dungeons. It feels like forever, but it might as
well have been a few days. There is no way of knowing: the dungeons are bathed in perpetual gloom all day, and
the guards are no help. The vague outline of a prison guard marches toward him, and a bunch of heavy, iron keys
jingle from his hip. The man watches it with haunted eyes. If only he could reach it… The figure turns right, and disappears
from his view.
That is how he spends the hours: hoping for something he will never have. All this mess over a petty
misunderstanding. He never stops wishing, though. He fiddles with the rough hem of his shirt. He hates the dark.
March 15th, 1823, Bei Shi, Old Shanghai
It is a crisp spring morning in the Northern City. A young man in tattered rags steps through the tall gate, and leaves a
trail of dirt in his wake. The guard wrinkles his nose and mutters something obscene under his breath. The young man feels
his face heat up, but he doesn’t retort. He’s just a poor, young Chinese boy. Nobody will listen to him, nor will they care. He
weaves through the throng of people, and heads towards a shed where he stores his rickshaw. A loud honk blasts out from
behind him and he moves instantly, spurring his feet into motion. All around him, the crowd scatters like seeds in the
wind. He barely manages to get out of the way before a shiny black car speeds in. He feels the rush of the wind on his skin as
the car grazes past him, and lets out a sigh of relief. They must be in a hurry to attend some fancy elite party, he thinks with a
tinge of bitterness and longing.
A cry of pain jolts him out of his daydream and he turns toward the source of the sound. An old beggar clutches his
foot in pain, and the young man catches a glimpse of tyre marks embedded into his flesh. “Help me! Jiu ming ah!” he wails,
and it reminds the young man of a siren. He freezes in horror, but nobody else seems to notice. The world continues to tick
past as if nothing just happened. People swarm past him, unaware of the old man and his crushed foot. He swallows down the
bile rising his throat, and hurries to the little shed, leaving the old man’s mournful wails behind.
As he wanders down the cobblestone streets, his rickshaw trails behind him, and it kicks up small puffs of dust. The
aroma of dumplings steaming in a teahouse reaches his nose, and his stomach grumbles. Breakfast is a foreign concept to
him. There is simply no money to spare. His last meal was a bowl of watery gruel a day ago, a long forgotten memory that he
holds onto tightly in the past few cold, winter months. A plaque catches his attention, and the words: “dogs and Chinese are
forbidden to enter” are emblazoned onto the shiny metal. A wave of shame and anger threatens to overwhelm him. Red spots
dance at the edge of his vision, and he tries to stamp the anger down, to bury it in the back of his mind. He might have the
same social status as a dog, but he still has pride. He thinks of his baby sister. She was always so proud -- too proud, their
mother used to say with a wry smile. He tries to conjure up her face from the depths of his memory: the arch of her brow, her
dark eyes, her the way she smiled. Nobody smiles much back at his home, in the Old City. He shakes his head in
frustration. What use is it to dwell on the past? He slips an obedient mask over his face. One day, he will get rid of all this
pretense. One day, he vows to stand up and get the life he deserves. Sometimes he wonders if those days will actually come.
It is late afternoon and the Bund is surprisingly empty. The young man hunches up on the street, and he wipes away the
sweat on his face. He glimpses his reflection in a muddy puddle on the ground, and he stifles a gasp. The face that peers back
up at him is lean and gaunt. His eyes are sunken pits with black smudges underneath. His limbs are skeletal, and his clothes are