Fiction: Group 4
“Let me in…. Let me in!” A string of vulgarities follows.
I am hidden by shadows, and cover my ears to try block out the sound as the screams grow increasingly
furious; it is the wrong sound for a still night in Huizhou.
Mother flies to the door, with a finger pressed against her lips, and flings it open as Father slumps onto the
ground in front of her. His face is the shade of a ripe plum, and his muscles are slack. Mother tells him in a
hushed voice that he is very, very drunk and needs to stop shouting. He tells her to shut up, that we need to
move to Guangzhou right away – there is nothing for us here. Mother tries to guide him to bed, but he
snaps at her. She asks him why he can’t just appreciate that we all have each other, a loving and complete
family. Father spitefully reminds her that baby brother is dead, and everyone in the village is cold and
starving for half the year anyway. Mother’s mouth opens in protest, but the words die before they reach her
lips.
I shrink into the shadows, because I can see Father’s face turn an even riper shade of plum. He is tired of
Mother and her endless string of questions; tired of being tied to us and this sleepy village; tired of bending
over rice paddies each morning, and coming home to a meal that leaves his stomach growling through the
night; tired of gazing longingly across the river at the city of lavish in things that he can only dream of. I am
ten years old, but I think a small part of me understands him.
And then Father raises a shaking hand, and brings it down onto Mother’s face hard.
That is something I will never understand.
December
I am down by the river again.
It is cold – cold enough for frost, but not snow. My teeth chatter and my shoulders shake but the river is my
favourite place to think and today, I have a lot to think about. I have to think about the purple bruises on
Mother’s face that never seem to go away, and the way Father’s breath always smells sour. I have to think
about how I hate the sound of Guangzhou now - how the purr of the exotic cars has turned into an angry
roar. I also have to think about how baby brother died a year ago today. I imagine what he would be like
now, a charming and bright-eyed three-year-old, and I could have taught him how to add up and read.
My bare feet crunch over frosted ground as I look into the river. It is not frozen, but I know if I fall in, the
cold will seep into my skin and numb me over. I squint to make out my reflection; the water is cloudy, and
little fragments of debris float about in it – a plastic bottle cap, and bits of algae mar its glass-like quality –
but through all the fragments, I can make out a long face and sunken cheeks, with dark eyes that are far too
tired to be curious.
It’s funny how much a year can change someone like me. Perhaps I am more than meets the eye after all.
New Tales of the Pearl River Delta
