Singing
Dulwich College Beijing, Johanna Shen, Fiction: Group 4
S
inging. I wonder for how long the endless sand dunes have been singing. Doesn’t its
throat get sore like mine does? I was never much good at singing. My brother was always
the musician of the family. Whenever I try, my throat hurts too much; perhaps it’s
because of the number of times I shout, scream and sob.
People always believed the singing of the sand dunes were spirits. Now they believe it is
science. Liars. People believe in “science” too easily. I’ve never been a religious person; I like
calling what I believe in fairytales. They sound far more, happy. I can never bring myself to
believe that people just die and that is the end. There has to be another life, a second chance,
heaven, somewhere where mortals meet again. They have to.
I will never trust in the Science they’re forcing onto us. It destroys hope, although sometimes
hope is the thing that destroys us.
Tourists come and go so quickly, the same thing each day. It reminds me everyday how
insignificant I am. Sometimes it may feel like it’s the end of the world yet the world keeps
spinning, work continues, life carries on. No one cares.
“Honey, I know it’s been tough but you can’t lock yourself in your room. We’ve moved on, now
it’s your turn.” Yes, no one cares.
Sliding the door open, my eyes meet my mother’s. Everything was different just a couple of
months ago. Now her face is so hollow, eyes lifeless, body slumped. She’s trying. I tried too, but
sometimes even after trying, it’s impossible.
“You look better already,” she hooks a loose strand of ivory hair behind my ear. I force a smile,
a smile so real that I even trick myself.
Quickly, I dart away. I hate staying here. It only reminds me of what I’ve lost. My mother
always says that home isn’t a place. Home is where the people who love you are, and as long as
those people love you enough, you’ll always return to them. That’s a lie. I love and I love him. He
never returns.
Walk. Jog. Sprint. I may not be the most muscular girl but after bolting day after day, my
body is already accustomed to the exercise. Some people eat when there are problems. Other
people take narcotics. The rest just shut down. Me? I run. Running may not solve your problems.
Running may not let you escape from them. Running may not make you feel much better but
running can at least temporarily deceive me into thinking they are gone.
Looking behind, the tourist attraction my family runs is gone. The tourists are gone. The
buildings are gone. The familiarity is gone. There’s nothing different about me but everything
around me is different and that is possibly the closest I will ever get to being someone different,
to being someone who hasn’t been cursed with torment.
Around me, all there is is sand. Vast blankets of gold waves washed over what seems like the
whole entire world. The ripples unmoving, as if frozen in time. So much nothingness, yet so much
simple elegance. The dampness of the rain from yesterday is completely swept away. A light breeze
filling the atmosphere with light sand particles swimming in the air.
A roaring sound fills the emptiness. It’s simply breathtaking. I love the sound that the singing
sand dunes makes. It reminds me of my brother singing while fingers dancing over a piano.
