Fiction: Group 4
The Pearl Shell
International College Hong Kong (ICHK), Cheung, Jennifer - 14, Fiction: Group 4
he young man sat alone in the cafe, his body rigid and tense. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for
days. His eyes were dead and unfocused on his handsome face; cracks and slits of crimson red
creeped up behind his black pupils. Even the bright, fractured sunlight that filtered in through the
slats of the window binds couldn’t keep the dullness out of his eyes.
Sara. The name that once tasted sweet and vulnerable on his tongue now turned sour and bitter. The media
had been cruel, unforgiving. But that was what they were: filthy, blood-sucking parasites that made a living
out of exploiting others. They crushed her spirit and her smile. She didn’t love her job anymore, but she did
it out of love for others. For those who pressured and pummeled and pushed her, yet she was still young and
naive enough to trust them. She had found a way to escape into the dreamworld. Anybody would go mad
with all the chaos and misconceptions and hate. But she had to put on a facade for everyone: Lara Monet.
Lara Monet, the stunning, flawless model who lived a wild life of partying and drinking. Lara Monet, her
gorgeous hair tumbling down over her shoulders, her black eyes piercing, her smile so effortlessly radiant.
He was the only one who she could face without the mask of make up and glamor. He was the only one
that saw her desperate, hysterical side that grappled to hold on to herself.
He shook his head and reached into his bag. He grabbed his bottle of antidepressants and gulped a few
down. He could almost laugh at how useless it was; no amount of drugs and therapy could assuage his pain.
He glanced at the glass window; his unruly hair and rumpled clothes stared back at him. Taking a slug of
water, he abruptly stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left. Oblivious to the noise of the traffic
and the bustling city of Guangzhou, the man absently made his way through the teeming street. Slowly, but
chaotically, paparazzi gathered around him like a swarm of flies, their long, snouted, smooth cameras poised
at him.
“-heard anything from her family?”
“Smile for the camera!”
“… want to say for her?”
“You’ve moved on to the next gal, haven’t ya?”
The man ignored them and trudged along the corner, waiting.
“How’d she die, Lara?” The paparazzi who asked was a short, stocky man with grubby hands that fumbled
around the camera. There was an outburst of desultory clicking and the man squared his jaw.
“She committed suicide, didn't she, mate?” The paparazzi pushed, video recorder rolling.
The man’s fists clenched beside his thighs while a limousine came rolling up smoothly, and the man
collapsed on the backseat.
As the car cruised along, his eyes slid over the outline of the towering skyscrapers, the bright flashing signs
and the bustling crowd, scurrying to get to their destination. But in the man’s eyes, everything had slowed
down. He absorbed every single moment, feeling surreal, burying it deep in his memories. ‘You never know
if it’ll be your last.’ Among the faces of the crowd he kept getting little glimpses of a beautiful, haunting
girl, whose silky red hair rippled every time she moved, and a tall, lithe body that was sculpted just like a
dancer’s.
The limousine glided along silently until it reached a narrow alley. “Wait here for me,” the man instructed.
He got out, and walked along the dark shadows formed by the tall buildings. He found the old door,
splintered at the edges and scuffed at the bottom from years of opening and closing it. His hands paused,
resting on the weathered and beaten door. A tiny voice protested in the back of his mind but it was soon
silenced by all the muddled thoughts. He pushed the door open and went inside like he had done for so
many years, the pounding music and fluorescent lights relaxing him. This was his escape. This was the place
he had grown to be familiar with.
T
