Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 400

Freedom Found
St Paul's Co-educational College, Kwan , Yuet Yan Cheryl - 13
12 th April, 1927
I
remember when my parents told me about the Shanghai City when I was small. I was intrigued by how my
parents described it – lively, bustling with people, and the city encircled by great stone walls. It was considered as
the “Paris of the East” and the “New York of the West”. I’ve never been to both cities before, but I’m sure they are
a thousand times better than Shanghai City. When I first arrived, I was greatly disappointed that most of the walls had been
destroyed right after the end of the Qing Dynasty. I’ve been here for more than two years, and all I’ve seen is opium being
smuggled when they think nobody’s looking, people huddled together, gambling incessantly, blowing thick, white smoke out
from their pipes. I’ve since grown tired of wandering mindlessly down the streets, trying hard to ignore the leers of the gamblers
when they’re blocking my way, and having to pinch my nose at the foul smell of the opaque smoke as they curled through the
hazy air, its scent lingering on my clothes even if I had left the area hours before. I can’t see why people adore this city, and hope
that they can soon realise how truly disgusting this metropolis is.
I’m used to waking up early and making breakfast for my family: my father, who needs to go to work every day, my
mother, who is often unwell and usually stays in bed, and my little brother Ming, who is seven and can’t really take care of
himself. I routinely tiptoe out of bed cautiously as not to rouse my family, and make breakfast after a quick wash-up. But at
dawn today, I was awakened by screams of pain. I was frozen on the spot, my heart beating rapidly as a militia of chills marched
down my spine. My breathing became erratic, and somehow tears of fear tumbled down, making my skin feel even colder.
Suddenly, my father rushed past, almost knocking me to the ground, and hurtled out of the house.
“What happened?” he demanded as some petrified-looking citizens scampered past.
“Kuomintang,” one of them said breathlessly, “They attacked the district offices.”
After that, father commanded me to remain in the house, while he went to survey the scene. I remember the people’s
screams ringing clearly in my ears, as if begging me not to forget the pain they must’ve gone through. I was rooted at the spot, in
shock of what had occurred. A few hours later, I crept out of the house. As I walked slowly and cautiously down the streets, I
noticed the usually unsoiled pavements were speckled with tiny dots of red—blood. I watched as the wounded staggered, their
own crimson blood falling and mixing with the ones on the floor. I saw communists being restrained and taken away, their faces
contorted in pain. I saw a man with a bullet wound on his leg, struggling to move as his wife and children wept for him. How
many have been wounded? How many people had lost their loved ones today? How long would they have to wait to see their
loved ones again? I couldn’t bear watching anymore, so I hurried back home.
Now I’m nestled in my warm bed, recollecting the events of today and putting them down in this diary. Every time I
close my eyes, the images of the wounded and the prisoners spring up vividly, and I would feel a wave of nausea sweep over me.
I don’t like being trapped in this city—this city full of people slowly committing suicide by drugging themselves, people
throwing away their money absent-mindedly, people assassinating others just because of different political views… I abhor
being confined in this terrible place.
Ling