Fiction: Group 4
Tranquility
St. Paul's Co-educational College, Wong, Tsz Ling Michelle - 16, Fiction: Group 4
he slow hum of a motor ascended to a deafening bawl as the train took off the station. Blocks upon
blocks of dense building flew by, a dull grey plastered on the window. I should probably be
patiently mixing colour on my palette, deciding which shade of grey would be the most apt on a
canvas, being an artist and all that.
Instead, I was crouching in my seat with my spine bending in strange angles. I was trying to get some
sleep in the packed compartment. I rested my head on the glass panel and gently closed my eyes…
“Ah Ming! You are supposed to call me ten minutes ago! Where have you been?” A man roared from his
seat two rows down, instantly pulling me back from my drifting conscious. It was only twenty minutes later
did the roaring along with the agitated crowd died down. I shifted and was resolved to relax against the
headrest when an obnoxious wailing of a baby pierced through the stuffy air. The loud whisperings of
everyone ricocheted in the compartment once again.
I groaned, agitated. Sleep had constantly evade me for the past months and I hadn’t have a good nights’
rest in almost two weeks. The bags under my eyes were turning purplish and slacking despite my best effort
of concealment. It was plain to see—I was exhausted. Yet, I was still sitting in the most uncomfortable seat
you could ever imagine, heading towards Guangzhou.
Our company’s production line had moved to Guangzhou more than two decades ago and I was
bestowed the honour to check on the production lines once per week, with the promise of a raise and a
better job title. I needed the money for my amateur artistic ventures. I relented.
It was only when I started to travel from Hong Kong to Guangzhou on every Thursday, toasting and
turning for four hours on the insufferable train rides to and fro did I realised this job was more than I could
handle. I was constantly on the move, my brain was being sucked dry by all the drilling in the conference
room and my body scarcely got a rest. Worst of all, my muse and creativity had escaped from my overused
brain and I hadn’t picked up a brush for over three months now. My energy was dissipating. I felt like a
walking dead that was constantly on edge and ready to jump.
The train gave a jolt and reverberated from the whistle, signalling the nearing of the station. Everyone on
board stood up and shuffled along with their respective luggage screeching behind them. Wearily, I
shouldered my overstuffed handbag, filled to the beam with tedious paperwork, and marched forward.
Get off the train. Leave the station. Hail a taxi. Get off in front of the factory. Walk in with head held
high, feigning the air of an authority expecting to be impressed. Walk around, closely inspecting the quality
of cloth, the colour precision, the stock and the rundown of each line. Check all the items on my checklist.
Plaster a smile on my face and praise all the workers, especially the manager. Leave with everyone happy.
Hail a taxi. Get to the train station. Get on the train. Get home. This was routine. This was mechanical.
This was quick and easy. I should be able to get back to sleep under four hours.
At least that was the plan until I was hailing a taxi outside the factory and realised my Home Return
Permit was missing from my wallet. How… Oh! I knew I had dropped something when I was getting off
the train! I thought I was just tired and heard someone dropped something. I just didn’t realised that
someone was me.
Stupid! Stupid! I was near to banging my head on the lamppost like Dobbie the house elf when I realised
the manager was still standing at the door, patiently waiting to see me out. How convenient.
T
