Fiction: Group 4
1 2 3
Based on the true events of the ‘1-2-3 Riot’ of 1966.
The British International School Shanghai, Puxi Campus, Hughes, Sarah - 15,
Fiction: Group 4
apá?”
I step out the tobacco shop, my eyes dry and crisp from the darkness of the basement
that even the subtle radiance of the setting sun blinds me. Oddly enough, the main street appears to be
desolated, stripped of people, leaving only the shadow of destruction behind.
Opposite of me lining the once quaint city of Macau are windows of boutiques and butchers, they
stand tightly packed, side by side now only beaten and forlorn, their windows shattered, brimming the
pavements with jagged shards of glass. Window shutters hang desperately clinging on to the last nail, doors
forced open, beaten down, nail marks trailing along the painted wood -clawing.
However it isn’t the dismal details of the shops or the decaying sense of civilisation that brings an
aching rush of alarm. What frightens me the most is what is right in front of me, painted across the stretch of
the bank and the butcher’s shop, sloppy and large, in Chinese characters, in bold red. And even though I
cannot read the foreign language I know what this is.
It’s the cries of a revolution.
I almost seem compelled to the political graffiti, cautiously crossing the now brutally conditioned
road -bare-footed. And despite the searing pain of the glass slicing my flesh, I still stumble on, my watery
eyes fixating on the angered words. I’m close now, close enough for my fingertips to touch the sticky scarlet
paint, close enough to see how real this is. But reality has never been this unkind, it has never scarred my
home, riddled me with threats scribbled across the streets I live in. Reality has never felt this unsafe.
“Papá,” I say, although I know I am alone, “Why did you let this happen?”
My eyes begin to search frantically, except I don’t know what I’m looking for. But I don’t see
anyone – all I can see is red. Red everywhere. The red of the messages smothered along the street. The red
of the splintered banners, the red of burning flags. The red of my shredded soles, the red of my bloody
footprints crossing the road. The red of savagery.
“Papá!” this time I scream, to a point where my throat feels like gravel and my body throbs
fiercely, “You told me you wouldn’t let this happen! You promised!”
I shout viciously, cursing, screaming until my throat is raw and tears blur my vision. All my buried
rage and explosive exasperation now crumbles, my anguish withering, leaving me feeling helpless,
vulnerable. I can’t do anything; I have no power, no voice. No matter how loud I scream or cry, it won’t
make a difference.
I’m just a weak child, too naïve to see the world as it is. My home was always in risk of self-
ruination but it is only now I choose to see it. And because of all these little things, because I trusted my
father too much with useless promises, because I refused to accept what was happening I will always have
remorse and guilt hanging over me.
Because I know I let my only friend die today.
On December the 3
rd
, 1966.
“P
