Fiction: Group 4
at us in pity while we sit, swatting at flies. When we are about to pack up and leave, the businessmen
descend upon us, a flock of blood-hungry vampires. They know that we haven’t sold much fish; they know
that we are desperate for money, and they know that we will sell the fish to them. No, not sell. Give. There
eyes glint and gleam as they haggle the price down, taking pleasure in our plight. We stand there, unable to
do anything, hands clenching in anger and frustration but hanging uselessly by our sides. They take away all
the fish, load it into their trucks, and ship it all the way to the cities, where fish was in huge demand. Where
nobody knew where it came from.
The toxicity of the oily water below stung my eyes as I stood staring at it. Even with the light from my
lantern infiltrating the deep depths below, I could not get a glance at what lay beneath. I only saw the dark
rippling surface, staring at me blankly without emotions, keeping a stone solid poker face. It revealed
nothing to me, and that allured me. What lay beneath the surface? What would I find? The water, it called
to me, to escape the burdens and cumbersome responsibilities of life, to escape all the pain, all the hurt, all
the suffering. Oh, what it would be like to lose myself in its languid grasp.
I prepare myself to plunge into the waters below, one foot on the edge of the sampan, to escape from all
the hardships of life, but I stop. The river, it no longer looks so placid, so welcoming. It now leaned
forward, trying to gnash at me with its gaping maw. I shiver, step back, and all the memories, all the reasons
of why I still needed to live flooded into me, slamming into me like a huge riptide. My worries and
lamentations were dwarfed, and I berated myself for being so stupid. How could I ever have thought of
suicide? How could I ever have thought of leaving my daughter behind to fend for herself? I quiver in
shame, but quickly calmed myself down. I would make it up by catching more fish today, and so the brutal,
unforgiving work continued on, until the tinges of red and scarlet colored the distant horizon.
Today was no different than any other. Almost nobody bought our fish, and the businessmen swallowed
the rest up. It was so repetitive, so boring, that my anger and rage at my predicament had dulled to a
glowing ember from its raging fire. We could no longer curse the westerners, who poisoned and polluted
the river, or utter invectives to the businessmen who took advantage of us. Time had worn us down. We
say our farewells, bodies tired, eyes without soul, and head off, each to their own.
It was a long walk from the market to my home. We lived in a little fishing village, a ramshackle of
shoddily built houses made out of rusted out steel. I make it to the front steps of my house, the smallest and
most decrepit out of all. My wife glares at me as I enter, blaming me for forcing her into destitution, and my
daughter lies on a straw mat, eyes glazed over, looking at nothing, sick to the core.
My daughter is dying. My wife resents me.
Maybe I should have thrown myself into the river. What was the point of this miserable existence? What
was the point of working myself half-dead to find nobody appreciated what I did? The harsh truth of reality
rammed at my heart, and it finally shattered. Tears came down in torrents, and I collapsed onto the floor a
broken man.
