Fiction: Group 4
“Could you just calm down?” Tomás says quietly for people begin to look in my direction, “Most
of the department headed over to Taipa, so there’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure they have it under
control.”
My father has never been called out for duty in an emergency circumstance. Merely because Macau
is an unusually small city, it doesn’t require much attention in terms of homicides, there are rarely any
violent incidents and brutality is scarce. Not once did my father have to use his gun whilst on field, it just
isn’t dangerous – no one needs to get hurt. In fact, my father’s career is mostly formed with petty crimes,
unimportant lawsuits, and minor burglaries. Therefore no matter what Tomás says or what my father will
say it isn’t okay.
The sky is now a dusty aubergine colour, the lampposts flicker copper inefficiently and the air is
still sweet and sticky – just like every evening. The soft chatter, intricately sewn of Cantonese, Chinese and
Portuguese, slowly evaporates so the only sounds filling our tired streets is the distant exuberance of neon lit
casinos filled with the drunken thrill of gambling.
Tomás and I carry paper bags of stale bread and rejected pastries the bakeries offer before they close
for the night. And despite the dryness of the dough and the flakiness of the custard tarts, they smell
promising, honeyed and greasy. But I also carry the anxiety for my father, hidden within, and I hope when I
return home that he’s waiting for me – unharmed and safe.
In some attempt to comfort me Tomás tells me of other conflicts, ones much worse than what
Macau can endure, ones that Macau will never have to encounter. He tells me tales of where his mother is
from, on the other side of the Pearl River Delta. Stories of a great revolution, happening as we speak, only it
doesn’t lighten the nation, but a brings a new sense of darkness.
“It’s horrible, my granddad, he was forcibly displaced then imprisoned for no particular reason...
People are being tortured, seized of property, repeatedly harassed…” His words aren’t fueled with fury;
there is a hint of despair in his tone.
“But this will never happen here, this revolution will never manage to get here, not when we’re
under the Portuguese.” I almost appear to be reassuring myself.
Tomás just shrugs “See you at mass tomorrow.”
We split ways and head down our dimly lit streets, with only uncertainty cradling our consciences.
At the end of the violet-shadowed street I see the silhouette of a man at my door, and I run, the thudding
of my feet echoing into the soundless night, praying that it’s my father – and it is.
“Papá!” I rush to hug him but stop mid-step when I see his face, “Are you okay?”
A thick stroke of red across his cheek, smeared along his jawline, but it’s crusty and dry, like rust
flaking. The bridge of his nose matches the purple of the sky, and it swells. Despite my concern he
continues to jam the key into the door, and I see his knuckles freshly worn, so the flesh is pink and trickles
scarlet.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, my voice shaking a little.
He exhales slowly but doesn’t turn to look at me, he then silently goes to the kitchen, rinsing the
red from his hands, digging dried blood from under his nails. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t utter a word,
he doesn’t acknowledge me – he is tranquil. And as his hands become cleaner, the water becomes more pink
and the quieter he becomes.
“Papá, you’re bleeding.” I murmur while my fingertips begin to tremble.
