Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 | Page 47

He reaches his hand out again but this time he picks up the whole stock supply of biscuits and while
observing the biscuits queerly, he cocks his hand back and throws them out of the window with his full
force.
Startled, I stumble backwards into a wall, scratching myself against a splinter. I grimace in pain, holding back
my voice as I know it will give my presence away. The food, the only thing that the crew live on, is being
thrown away by him? The ship could be a hundreds of miles away from land, yet the person is throwing the
food away?
I hastily look back at the room, now dotted with crumbs. More than half of the food is now gone, laying
deep within the sea, far from return. The figure is continuously breaking apart packages and packages of
food, each time disposing of them in the vast and endless ocean.
The figure makes a sudden movement and gropes around his silk belt to reveal a thin but relatively short
needle, no longer than the span of his hand. Curious, I watch in awe as he grasps the needle tightly and
shuffles over to the edge of the room near the open porthole, shuddering as he does so. Peculiarly, he takes a
deep breath and raises the needle up high and jabs it in a downward motion through the wooden floor. A
small trickle of water slowly gushes out from the newly made hole in the floor.
In delayed and sudden realization of what he has done, the figure drops the needle and careens backwards
towards the open and dilapidated door of the pantry. The room is starting to flood and is submerged to the
height of the doorstop. I nimbly run through to the pantry, tackling the figure with my full force, restricting
his breath and wrapping a linen drape around his face, covering it. Eventually he stops struggling and lies on
the drenched floor, breathing heavily. I begin dragging him across the soaking wet floor.
An abrupt and sudden sound echoes out from the right side of the hallway, shaking the floors and the walls.
Zheng He, the commander and the captain of the ship is standing a few feet behind me, a sullen expression
covering his face.
“Hand him over to me,” he announces. “I will deal with him separately.”
Reluctantly, I step backwards, and follow the captain’s orders, a flurry of emotions engulfing me.
Zheng He harshly escorts the figure up the stairs to the execution room, beckoning me to come with him.
Hesitantly, I step down and walk through the corridor with my head down as a sign of utmost respect.
Shaking, he draws a long and sharpened sword from his belt and raises it high above his head. He
singlehandedly rips the linen drape off the figures face to reveal…
My father. Lying on the floor, about to be executed, is my father.
“Wait!” I cry out, bewildered by the occasion taking place in front of me. I run towards my father and place
a hand over his body.
“Yo-Yo-You don’t understand,” he says, tears streaking down his face.
“I work for the Mongol government. I was just following orders,” he stutters, backing into the nearby wall.
Zheng He pushes me aside and readies his sword above his ear.
And with one final motion, he swings it down and plunges it deep into my father’s chest.