Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 475

Change is Hard
The Independent Schools Foundation Academy, Ng, Eugenie - 14
I
began my day by taking a deep breath to calm down. Cars were revving and banter was distinct in the background. This new
atmosphere is so bustling, so overwhelming…… Yet so refreshing. I don’t know how I got here, nor how long I will stay in
this vessel, but I want it to last. My life has been like this, all day everyday, as a restless, unbound spirit, floating through the
skies like a cloud. Everyday I wake up, unsure of where to go or who to talk to , or even what language to speak, but that’s the
exciting part of this process; you don’t stop to question anything and live in the moment while you can.
Today, I wake up with an intense pounding to my head. I open my eyes only to find myself in a new body of a schoolboy. It took
a while to find my bearings. As I inspect the room for any clue of what city, town I am in, or even what hemisphere I currently
live in. I once woke up inside of an igloo in Serbia with wolves howling outside. That was not an enjoyable day. But I am relieved
to find that this room is well furnished, with a slightly warm but pleasant breeze blowing through the ajar window. I can
distinctly hear chatter in the streets, but it’s not clear enough for me to decipher what language it is of. I regard the room once
more to learn more about the owner, and quickly find out from numerous medals, trophies and certificates that the life I have
taken over for a day originally belonged to one Carlos Lee. I quickly memorize that name and quickly walk towards the window
to draw the shades Carlos clearly neglected to do so last night. I suddenly stagger backwards, not from the blinding sunlight, but
because the feeling of déjà vu of this reminiscent skyline has overcome me, as if this skyline I’m observing had once been my
home.
It was the feeling of familiarity within unfamiliarity, like meeting a once close friend after a long duration of separation. And it
finally dawned on me that I have seen this scenery before, but only from a different time period; The infamous Shanghai tower
towered over the mall in which a high school once stood. My high school. The cherry blossom tree near my apartment building
which stood tall and sweet-smelling is now surrounded by a lush park. The Shanghai I knew from eons ago, when my body was
my own, was filled with short squat buildings between a canopy of clotheslines, bordering the jade green Huangpu river.
Crowded temples and teahouses were deemed special and local landmarks, unlike this new world where skyscrapers and
billboards dominate every inch of space.
Because I haven’t been brought back to live once more for ages, I’m completely taken aback by how strange it is to see the
hometown I’ve known utterly transformed. I haven’t inquired about Shanghai ever since my plane crashed near the coast of
Madagascar, ending my old life ended and starting a new one, where I would imitate someone everyday.
All nostalgia aside, I have to focus on my agenda, which is the same for every day I take away from each inhabitant: to find out
their schedule as subtly as possible, to live the day normally and keep any complications to a minimum.
Set myself the task of analyzing the contents in Carlos’ room to learn his daily life and his relations with everyone so I can act
accordingly. I see an open book on his desk, a diary. I hadn’t thought anyone still wrote in those but judging from the cover
imprinted with a school crest it was probably mandatory to keep one for schooling purposes. I flipped it open, ready to interpret
the words into whatever personality I have to take on. This process has toughened up my tolerance over the years as in many
instances I’ve had to stand up for timid and shy people in moments when superiors bully them, and I’ve learnt from countless
times that sometimes justice isn’t brought upon, and right isn’t always right.
I skimmed through the pages in a matter of minutes, managing to read entries discussing him and his friends going out to
parties, how finals were stressing him out, how he adored the chocolates on Nanjing Street, all mundane events in daily life,
constructed with the simplicity and compassion of a regular schoolboy mind.
But October 13th was the day the sugary sweet entries turned sour. He began each sentence with ‘Dearest Diary’ outlined
thicker as the days went by, and had stopped talki ng about the events that went on during the day. He talked more about his
mother, how she regularly woke up after mid-day, how she consistently forgot significant dates like her conference meetings and
her mother’s birthday, how her eyes were always watery. Carlos noted that the bruises on her arms that were no loving hugs from
her husband; He had frantically written and rewritten ‘what do I do what do I do’ under his entries. Weeks afterwards, he no
longer had to worry about his mother’s well being, and his mother no longer had to worry about forgetting important dates, as
for once she managed to be on time for her own funeral. Afterwards, the what do i do’s became why didn’t i’s. His entries
became shorter and more depressing. On an emotional scale, his journal resembled a grayscale turning darker. Few pages were
left free of water stains and crinkles. His writing has become incomprehensible and shaky. The mind can only imagine so much
of what can happen to a person.