Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 514

Refuses
To
Let
Go.
I lay Papa gently back down on the rubble and walk my way through the shattered slabs of concrete. I wade in a hard, grey sea
that drags me down and drowns me with the memories it once held.
I see a human figure lying a few feet away, and my feet involuntarily starts moving towards them. I try to pull back. But I know I
am looking to find my family.
The figure is also lying face down, but she has long, sleek black hair tossed to the side. She wears an apron and the ache beneath
my ribcage turns into a steady thump of pain.
Mama.
I turn her over so I can see her face. Her skin is still smooth, just scratched slightly. She reminds me of a gently damaged
porcelain vase. Damaged, but still beautiful. I find my hand reaching to brush away the stray strands of black hair resting on her
face and cupping her chin, my thumb gliding over the top of her sharp cheekbones. She is wearing a locket with a heart shaped
pendant.
I unbuckle the necklace, the smooth feeling of gold sliding my fingers. I know there is a small picture inside the heart. I click
open the heart, and a photograph of our family, with my grandparents on both sides is nestled inside safely.
“I’m going to take this Mama, okay? I want to have a picture of us all.” I whisper to her as I quietly take the locket off her and
secure it around my neck.
I stand up again, looking around to see if I can still hear Lee’s cries. I can almost see him, his black hair messy as grey dust settles
against him, tears falling down his chubby baby cheeks.
Except I can’t see him.
I look down, and I see a hand sticking out from underneath the concrete. With a frown and a breathy gasp, I bend down, pushing
and throwing broken pieces of concrete everywhere, and I unearth my little baby brother.
My mouth shapes an ‘o’, and silent screams of pain passes through my lips. I bring him up to cradle against my chest. His black
hair is matted with cherry red blood and his eyes are empty.
Tears run down my cheeks as grief expands itself in my hollow chest. My ribcage is close to cracking. He was only five. He had
such a life to live. I lay him on the concrete, he wears a ring on his thumb and I slip it off, gently sliding it onto my own finger. It
is my way of remembering him.
I carry Papa to where Mama and Lee lie. I want them to be together. Even if I can’t be with them. I stand up after carrying Papa,
and I see porcelain shards lying on the rubble.
It is the vase that once stood so quietly on the bookshelf. The one PoPo gave to Mama.
It is broken, but beautiful and smooth and precious.
I walk over to the broken vase and pick up a piece of it, a piece of where I can still see the intricate detail and pattern.
I slide it into my pocket and walk back to my family.
I kiss them all on their cold cheeks and stand up, allowing the tears to fall as I walk away.