Your's Truly
Huiwen:D River Valley High
Pei Hwa Presbyterian Primary
3C'09, 2i'08
and i like cheerful and happy people:D
Mr. Chatterbox
Huiwen:D Freshly baked, chocolate oozing out from its soft pores, the cookies squabbled for attention. Their doughy gummy bodies slouched against the sparkling metal tray, an array of different sized tongs neatly arranged, just like Mrs. Fang liked it to be.
The sweet aroma permeated the little ring-ding shop at the end of the street’s corner, the sole pride of Mrs. Fang‘s life. The signboard outside hung slightly askew, reading “Fang’s Sweet Delicacies” in cursive monotype. Mrs. Fang settled into her rocking chair, her bounded feet aching after the arduous day of hustle and bustle at her confectionary shop. Business was slow at this late hour. In an hour or so, she could pack up and go home to count the day’s tidy little profit. Her mood perked up as she thought of the luxuriant bed and welcoming warm fire waiting.
Back, forth, back forth. The steady, continuous momentum lulled Old Mrs. Fang into a state of semi-drowsiness. A single tendril escaped from the severe bun at the nape of her neck, softening her hard features that were etched across her face from a previous life of misery. Her wrinkled eyelids slowly drooped, covering her all-knowing hazel brown eyes. Then, her mind drifted as she nodded off.
Her skin prickled, her senses grew sharper. She jolted upright with a start. She could feel a pair of unblinking eyes fixated on her, watching her every slight movement. The stare was penetrating, unnerving. What’s more, she could feel desolation and anger in the heat of the gaze, directed towards her. It bore a hole into her back and without even a glance; she knew where it was coming from. Outside the store, through the third glass panel, fourth shelf, to the life, peering in through the space between the sweet glazy doughnuts and the high oak paneled ceiling of each shelf. She glanced to the side, yet the street was empty save for Mr. Hustler walking past, his hands stuck into his back pockets, whistling a merry tune. Yet, she knew “it” was still there as she could still sense its haunting presences lingering just like a bad smell on a humid summer night.
The phone rang shrilly, startling Mrs. Fang. In her preoccupied state, she blindly reached out for it.
“Hello, Mrs. Scholl here. I would like to place an order for a dozen chocolate topped nuts doughnuts and another dozen vanilla whipped cream and jelly doughnuts for Anson’s birthday.”
-Silence-
“Mrs. Fang, are you still there? Mrs. Fang? Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes. I’m alright. Who’s calling by the way? A dozen chocolate topped nuts doughnuts and another dozen vanilla whipped cream and jelly doughnuts, am I right?”
The audacious stare was still fixated in her, all the more intense. Mrs. Fang’s trembling fingers gingerly replaced the receiver and then, slowly lifted her weary head, hoping against hope that it was only her mind playing tricks on her. But low, behold, this was not to be.
Two hollow black orbs were staring at her, just as she thought it would be-third glass panel, fourth shelf, to the left. A mop of unruly curls perched on his gaunt face, chiseled fine with high, wide cheekbones and a cleft chin. The faint inkling of greenish blue along his unshaven jaw line indicated a bruise-from a fall or a fight, maybe. Yet, saved for the tightly pressed lips, his face was nothing more than a plain, emotionless mask. A pair of rough hewn jeans-the sort that you could purchase for ten dollars at the flea market-hung loosely on his lanky figure, matched with an old brown overcoat that seemed just a stitch too small for his towering height.
He caught her eye and just a hint of a smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He pressed his face against the glass, as if he was luxuriating in the knowledge that he was causing her a great sense of uneasiness. Immediately, an oily sheen stained the glass panels, blurring the image of the sad cookies slumped in the metal from the passersby. Then, he raised the finger, head thrown back in laughter as shock and distress started to register on Mrs. Fang’s face. Then, he turned on his heel and limped away jauntily, his shoes scuffling as he dragged himself down the street.
Scuffle, limp, scuffle, scuffle, limp. Old Mrs. Fang eyes trailed his heavy footsteps, following his slump shoulders till they disappeared round the corner. Already, her knuckles were straining against her pale translucent skin as she wrung the dish cloth in the fingers stricken with mild rheumatism. A deep frown was embedded across her forehead as the wrinkles wove webs at the side of her temples. That was who she was, old wrinkled, age-the shell of a former beauty who has been dealt a tough hand by fate.
Yet, all that struck her was the uncanny similarity of the smug smile and pursed fish lips-a figment of the past that she has left behind and had never wanted to rake up again. That smug smile as Randy whipped her with the belt as she cowered in the corner, pleading, begging. That smug smile as she quivered, while surrendering her hard earned money into his grubby palms. That pursed lips suffocating her as Randy forced himself onto her, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. That pursed ship lips twisted into that smug smile as he scorned her, twisting the cigarette butt into her thigh, her pleas reverberating through the room.
No, it can’t be. It must merely be a coincidence, a coincidence…
The very next day, just as she had laid her mind to rest, the hair on her skin prickled once again. Her back stiffened, her body going immediately into a protective crouch, At that very moment, Mrs. Yang comprehended the feeling of those being hunted- the unmistakable tang of fear and danger lingering, yet the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
There he was again, at the same particular spot he stood at when he first rudely barged into and unsettled her life. This time round, he was leaning heavily on a gnarled –looking cane, rough and unpolished. His hair was matted back and curling by his pixie-like ears. Ears, that Mrs. Gang knew, closely resembled hers. The intruder cocked his thumb and finger at her, and with feigned accuracy and precision, aimed and pressed the mock trigger. She flinched, he laughed.
“Splat!” he mouthed.
Then, he wriggled his grubby fingers at her down the street he went, his cane clanking against the sidewalk as he went.
Mrs. Fang sagged back into her chair. This stranger, with a twisted sense of humour, was her child alright, there was no denying that: Randy’s smug smile and pursed lips thrown into the package along with her own pixie like ears. How coincidental could that be?Yes, he was her child, alright. She would care for him, love him, and give him everything that she had failed to provide in the past, if only he would give her a chance to do so.
She could not wait…
The following day dawned bright and early, streaks of water of the blue. Business was brisk but for the very first time in her career, Mrs. Fang was not bothered by just how much she earned or if she would have any spare cash to take herself to Florida for a vacation. Instead, her eyes kept swiveling back to the black framed clock on the old mantle piece, busily ticking off the hours to 7p.m. where her child would once again appear.
At 7p.m., Mrs. Tan sat drumming her fingers impatiently against the table top, her eyes fixated on the similar spot haunted by his eyes- third glass panel, fourth shelf, to the left. In a daze, she silently mouthed “Charles”, a name that she had prohibited herself from uttering just all these years. How melodious that sole word sounded to her, comforted her after all those years that it had represented her child, haunting her dreams. But now it was different, he was no longer a figment of the past she should forget, He was a part of the present, he was back.
7p.m. came and went, then 8. The minutes slowly passed, hope slipping through her desperately flailing fingers. It was fast approaching 9 and the last of the little flame of hope was just about to be extinguished. It was then the letter came, slipped beneath the chrome–handled entrance of a door. The sender was sure stealthy. By the time Mrs. Fang has realized the pink envelope resting heavily against the maroon doormat, all was still. It was nonetheless just an envelope, yet it seemed to emit an ominous aura of its own. Its eye-catching colour did not help in reducing its prominence. Even as Mrs. Fang bent over, her aching back creaking in protest, Mrs. Fang knew that this envelope contained no normal letter.
Pale pink, unmarred. The envelope itself gave no indication of what lay in store. Her spidery fingers gingerly opened the envelope, the letter crinkling in its wake as she unfolded it. The words have obviously been written by someone experiencing a turmoil of emotions, for Mrs. Fang could feel the imprint of the words scalding her fingers. Splotches of ink dotted the paper, evidence of many a pen nibs being broken as the author viciously stabbed the pen against the paper.
The letter read:
“I’ve got no idea how to address this beast of a woman who has so unfeelingly neglected her child for years. Even if I tried to, I can never bring myself to call you my mother again. Would a real mother abandon her child when he is in need? Would a real mother leave her child to be continually abused by her husband when she herself knows how brutal his beatings are? Would a real mother run away without taking her child along? You and I both know the answers to these questions is no. I am ashamed that you are the one to have brought me into this world.
You made me feel helpless when you turned your back on me even when I cried out for you. Now, I will make you feel the same experience I went through. HELPLESSNESS. It’s my turn for revenge. SWEET REVENGE.
Just you watch out.”
The words swam before Mrs. Fang’s eyes, running into one another. The paper trembled and fell onto the parquet ground, giving off a soft sigh, as if relieved of the burden of passing along such a vicious message. Her sole mistake of foolishness had come back to haunt her again. Why had she left Charles when he was so helpless, so defenseless against the brute of his father? Why had she been so selfish? Now, Charles was so near, yet so far away. Why, oh why, had she blundered her way out of abuse, only to let her young child to take the full brunt if Randy’s temper?
…
The clang of the metal against the asphalt ground stirred Mrs. Fang from her troubled sleep into a state of semi-consciousness. She opened her bleary eyes, it was still dark.
“Go back to sleep. You still have a long day of work tomorrow.” She told herself. Yet, the air was humid, stifling her, prickling her wrinkled skin with sweat. Her quilt clung damply to her as she shifted to find a more comfortable position. She twisted and turned, but sleep had deserted her.
Mrs. Fang groaned. She sat up and reached for the window handle and that was when she smelt the smoke, the intoxicating smell of burning. Her heart thudded and her instinct of imminent danger kicked into overdrive. Her instinct was proved right when she noticed a trail of black smoke arising from beneath her window.
“My shop!” was the very first thought that came to her mind. True enough, as she stuck her head out of the open window, she could see the front of her shop going up in flames. No, she would never let the sole pride of her life go up in flames; it was her life line and her rice bowl after all.
The streets were still, deserted. The bedside clock beeped, its luminous numbers showing that it was 4a.m. Mrs. Fang could remember her mother’s words resonating through her mind, “Shi Hwa, look at this number-4.F-O-U-R. We Chinese have always considered four to be an inauspicious number, the number whom we always associated with the Chinese word 死,meaning death.”It had seemed silly, even to her, that she could even think of such a superstitious thing at the current moment.
Grappling around for her glasses, she found them by the nightlight. Owl shaped glasses perched precariously on her beak-like nose. Who could hear her pleas? Who could come to her rescue? The phone was downstairs, impossible to reach what with that raging fire going on down there. The neighbours were sure to be sound asleep, her little lungs would do her no good to rouse them from their slumber. If only there was someone on the streets, then perhaps there would be a hope where she could be saved before she was charred to a cinder. She held on to the little hope as the little round pieces of glasses sitting before her weak myopic eyes lent her a helping hand in scanning the streets.
That was when she noticed a dark shadow moving close to the wall of the opposing alley. Limp, shuffle, limp, shuffle, shuffle. The movement meant only one thing, that the shadow was a part of Charles.
“Charles! Charles! Save me!”
He turned. Yet, he made no movement nor appeared to be in a hurry to save her. His passive revealed no clue to how he really felt. Then, a smug smile, the one that seemed so much like Randy’s, worked its way across his unshaven jaw. Then, he slowly lifted a lighter and flicked it once. The flame shimmered, unsure,, then died. Yet, in that flicker of the flame, Mrs. Fang spotted Charles’ fingers wriggle lightly at her, as if saying goodbye. At that very moment, snippets of that letter flashed through Mrs. Fang’s mind. That sloppily scrawled “Just you watch out”. Realization dawned. The “deed” had indeed been done by none other than Charles.
The smoke was already seeping through under the door; the air was getting thicker every second. Mrs. Fang was already starting to choke, grasping air into her weak heaving lungs. Her asthma attack was back. Her knobby fingers clung tightly to the edge of the window as she tried to mutter “help” in the last desperate attempt to cry out to her sleeping neighbours. Yet, all she managed was a soft croak. Charles sure meant every single word in his letter. He had succeeded. But she could not blame him. Hadn’t she made him feel the same sense of helplessness just 20 years ago? She was a lousy mother and she regretted it. It was time she paid dearly for her mistake.
That was her last thought as she sunk into obliviousness, crumpling into a heap at the edge of her bed.
…
The permeating smell of the sterilizer stung her nostrils and weaved its way into her sub-consciousness, tantalizing her awake. Mrs. Fang forced her eyes opened. It was too bright, too dazzling, it hurt her eyes. She shut them again, relaxing into the deep, calming sea of darkness.
“Mrs. Fang? Mrs. Fang, its time to take your medicine.”
Warm, comforting palms gently shook her, resting against her still arm. Mrs. Fang opened her eyes again. It was too bright. She shut her eyes, eager to return to the dark, blank, unfeeling world devoid of emotions. Yet, the shaking was relentless. Already, strong arms were reaching underneath her, propping her up on her frail elbows. Mrs. Fang welcomed the world of brightest with the sarcasm of a hostile host, the world of reality that she so desperately did not want to return to.
Her days at the hospital were all the same; mundane and long. But to Mrs. Fang sure was preoccupied. No, she was not thinking about the hospital bills chocking up even when her rice bowl was gone. No, neither was she thinking about what was left of her charred little bakery or her home that sat above it. Instead, as she lay there staring at the ceiling fan turning round and round, all she could feel was the numbing sense of the strong pang of helplessness as she watched her son walked away last night, leaving her to croak in that musty old room above her shop house. The pangs of agony was so overwhelming that the very idea of her shop and home going up in flames no longer daunted her, it was naught but merely a itch at the back of her mind. She would trade anything, anything at all, even her bakery and home, had Charles not forsaken her that night.
…
The very day of her discharge from the hospital, she went back to what she had once called home. She was surprised to see that her house was still standing, nonetheless, it was badly charred. Yet, there was naught a tinge of sadness or despair. What she had once defined as home was now nothing more than a shell-it lacked human warmth and love. After all, no home, not even the most majestic of palaces, could be called a home had it lacked the two main ingredients.
“Mrs. Fang! It’s great to see you back! I’ve got news for you!” Nosy Old Cheng from next door hobbled over on his unsteady feet.
“Good morning Cheng. What is it that is so important that you have to tell me now?” she answered wearily, her shoulders sagging.
“The arsonist was caught. Must be a stupid guy. I can’t believe that he set fire to your house, and then actually called the police and the fire department. What’s more, when the firemen rescued you, he was the most eager person to know your welfare, even going to the extent of hugging you close. Boy that’s crazy news. Its been the talk of the town for these few days. Oh, I’m sorry about your house too. Now, now, don’t cry. You can put up in my guest room for a few days till you find a new location. I’m sure my wife won’t mind. ”
Yet, she was not crying for the lost property. The tears of joy-brought by her son, cascaded freely down her gaunt cheeks.
“Old Cheng, where is he?”
“County’s Prison. Why do you ask? Anyway, are you going to press charges against him?”
There was no reply. Old Cheng could only stare blankly, his mouth hanging agape as Mrs. Fang grinned and teetered-tottered her way in the direction of County’s Prison. No one else but her could understand the immense joy she was feeling. She might have lost her son, her home, but she had gained backed her son. Or at least he had cared enough for her even if it meant being arrested to save her life.
…
The prison chair was cold and hard, brutal to the seated. The chilly air radiating from the humming air condition made the visiting room the room all the more hostile, what with its barren walls and sparse furniture, not to mention the thick glass panels preventing Mrs. Fang from ever reaching out to touch her son, to ever have a feel of him after the long years of separation. Mrs. Fang drummed her fingers against the scratched table as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, anticipation and excitement building up in her thudding heart by the moment.
A shuffle. The door creaked open. The gaunt hobbling figure entered, followed by a police officer. The handcuffs clicked softy together. The screech of the chair pulled out. Charles sat heavily into it.
“Charles? Mommy’s here. Mommy’s come to see you.”
He looked back at her with his cold eyes, with no hint that he was going to open up to her.
She tried again.
“Mommy’s going to try to bail you out. Will you give Mommy another chance?”
No answer.
Then, it was same irksome screech of the chair sounded out abruptly as Charles stood, and the soft click as the door shut back into place after Charles and the policeman.
Mrs. Fang looked at the seat Edward has just vacated.
Her heart plunged. Her excitement faded.
Did he really forgive her?
Would time tell?
Perhaps now wasn’t the right time yet.