In the train

Sitting opposite me was a couple in their mid to late twenties.

The man was thin, and had a moustach. His skin was pale but clear. His features were angular, and he seemed painfully thin. His hair was thick and black and wavy and comes down to his shoulders. He was wearing a graphic T-shirt with some arty logo on, a black jacket, and jeans that looked very dirty and frayed at the hems. His black converse shoes were just as dirty. He gazed mindlessly at the TV monitor, which only ever shows cable news and advertisements about health products and distance learning courses. His eyes hollow but very black. Occasionally he would touch the woman's hand, then mindless retrieve it to touch his moustach or scratch his head.

The woman had an oval face. Her eyes were small, her features delicate, her skin smooth. She had masses of thick curly black hair. The first thing I noticed about her was her footwear. A pair of flat red pumps, with bits cut out here and there, giving you a glimpse of her red swollen flesh. Bits of glitter were stuck on it, and it looked like a DIY job. Her jeans were bleached on the thighs, and she had a black knitted poncho on. Like her companion, she stared into nothing most of the time, and occasionally darted me a look which I would not describe as friendly.

I guess I stared too much.

They did not look at one another nor talk to one another during the journey. When the train began to pull into Hung Hom Station, the man leaned over to the woman ever so slightly, and gave her the slightes peck on her left cheek. Then he got up and went to stand by the door. When the train stopped, he walked out.

Once the doors were shut again, the woman retrieved a compact from her bag. As the train pulled out from the station, she started putting on concealer around her eyes and the wings of her nose, carefully. Every now and then she glanced out of the windows, I guess to check if her companion might still be seen. Then she took out a black kohl pencil, and skillfully drew around her upper eyelids. Next were the eyelash curlers, and mascara. Then blush. Then powder. The whole operation took about three minutes. I know, because by the time the train arrived at the next stop, she has already been transformed. She looked glamorous and sexy. Before she got off the train, she took off her poncho to reveal a slim fitting black t-shirt with a low cut neckline.

Based on a true story

Memories are never quite as reliable testaments to events and thoughts and reasons and behaviours as we'd like them to be, but they are often the only things we got, to remind us of who we are and where we came from.

My childhood memories are few and far between. Why is that? I do not know. But this one, I remember. I remember this in quite some detail.

When I was about three or four years old, an older man came to live with our family. I was told he came from Guatamela, had lived there all his life, and that he was a distant relative, even though he did not share either my mother or my father's last name, or that of my grandparents'. I was told to address him as "great uncle". He spoke with an accent. He was old. Exactly how old, I did not know. He was older than my parents. His hair was thin and grey. His skin was dark, and he was wrinkly.

My parents boarded off a corner of the dining area and made that his room. Inside was a bed, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. It was always dark in his room. The walls and the boards were painted a ghastly green. When the lights are off his room is pitch dark.

I was told he had a small business in Guatemela, and now he had retired. He had never been married. He sat around a lot, sometimes helping out with small tasks, like wiping my bum after I've had a poo, when my mother was too busy playing mahjong.

I did not like him. At the time I did not know why, but now I think I do. He came from out of nowhere. He looked strange. I wasn't convinced by his story. He was wrinkly. Why was my mum so nice to him? And it was mainly my mum, because my father was hardly ever around.

****************

How much inexplicable hatred can a child show on her face?

I hated this "great uncle" who came out of nowhere. I jealously guarded the boundaries of what I understood as family. He was an intruder, a pathetic scrounger. The only reason I could come up with, to account for my mother's kindness towards him, is that they were lovers. My contempt for him escalated when my mother became pregnant. I knew nothing about how babies were made, but somehow I knew that this was not my father's baby. It's his baby.

As my mother's bulge grew, I gave up all attempts to disguise my hatred towards him. I would stare at him as if he was dirt. I practised in front of the mirror. I caught glimpses of the trailers for The Poltergeist. I tried to make myself look evil.

What exactly was I hoping to achieve? I had no plan. It was difficult enough to articulate my own feelings, in my own little head, let alone come up with some strategy to do something about them. I was trying to hurt him. I tried to make him know that he was unwelcomed. He could never be one of us.

And it seemed to work. Slowly, his posture began to change. He stooped more. He lowered his head. His voice started to quiver for no apparent reason. He could not finish his sentences when I was around. He started avoiding first my stabbing gaze, then me.

And then, my sister was born. She was an angel, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

********************

My baby sister, she did not look anything like me.

She looked like my mother. She had large, dark eyes, thick lips, tight curly hair. She was beautiful. Me, I was anything but beautiful. I didn't need to practise my evil looks in the mirror no more, those looks had become part of me.

When my sister was 1 month old, my father splashed out for the family to have our pictures taken at a photographic studio. My father, in his best suit, my mother, in her best Sunday dress, my baby sister, in a pink cashmere shawl that my grandmother sent from Shanghai, and me, in a yellow dress that was too short, too tight, too pretty, too stiff. I still have that picture. In it, everyone was smiling, including me. Everyone's eyes looked blissful, joyous, thankful, except mine.

Three weeks after that photo was taken, my sister died. She stopped breathing in the middle of the night. I was the first to see her that morning, her face blue, her limbs stone cold. I screamed. And then I laughed. And then I cried.

***********************

I do not have much recollection of what happened in the months immediately after my sister's death. It was one big blur. I remember people in and out of our apartment, I also remember my mother sitting motionless, a lot, and I remember my father being away a lot of the time, as usual.

I remember pouring a pan full of boiling hot congee over myself one morning. I can't remember if I'd done it deliberately or not. I remember staying two nights in the hospital. I remember the funeral, where I let off a loud fart, where my mother slapped me.

I do not remember how "great uncle" was, during that time. I have some memory of what people said about me, to my mother, in my presence, as if I wasn't there.

"What on earth is the matter with her. What on earth have you been feeding her. That child is.... is.... not right, I tell you."

"It's the shock of it, it's a lot for a child her age, give her some time."

"She needs a good beating. And give her a haircut for fuckssake."

"...call this number, this guy know stuff, tell him I send you... he will sort her out"

I stopped looking at myself.

One night, I woke up, darkness all around me. I got out of bed, and walked towards my parents' room. My feet cold, the wooden floor colder. The door to their room was shut. I opened it, slowly, turning the handle with my left hand. It was very dark inside. It took me a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
I saw the contours of a person sitting up in the bed. Just the one person, in the middle of the bed. I could not make out who it was. Its back against the headboard, both hands on its lap. I opened the door a bit and then some more. I wanted to get a closer look. The light from the streets casted a shadow on the wall, the person remained motionless. I took one more step forward, then squatted, then squinted. The shadow on the wall, now I could wee, was the head of a person.

The shadow of this person had two small horns on the side of its head. My heart skipped a beat as I realised what I was looking at. I felt blood draining from my head. I felt naueous and something acidic was coming up from my guts. I covered my mouth with my right hand. Hot tears started filling my eyes and I wanted to see who this was. So I took another step forward, then another more. I was about six feet away from the person on the bed. Then I saw its face. It moved, and it turned slowly towards me.

It was him. He gave me a look.

I screamed. Then I woke up.


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