GRUDGETOWN – Huina Zheng
I returned to Grudgetown and met my sister, two years my senior, still a vision of stunning beauty, like a woman in her fresh twenties. Time has been kind to you, I remarked, leaving no trace on your visage. No, she replied, it’s you who remains untouched by the years. Together, we wandered the streets, flanked by vendors, as if time had paused its relentless march here. The air, thick with the scent of impending rain, cloaked everything in a layer of moisture; droplets clung to the walls, the ground glistened, as if the world was wrapped in a shroud of transparent mist. In a quaint clothing store, I tried on skirts, catching the reflection of a middle-aged man in the dressing room mirror. I recognized him as my math teacher from middle school who’d humiliated me with his harsh reprimands. I attempted to feign ignorance, but he called out my name. You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I said with fear. No mistake, he retorted, the mole on your nose and your impolite, dead-fish eyes of a failing student are still there. His hefty hand grabbed my ponytail, hoisting me up like a bag of trash, and dragged me behind the mall to a garbage dump, discarding me onto the ground, shaking his hand as if to rid himself of bacteria. You’re still as foolish and empty-headed as ever, he sneered. I despise students as dumb as pigs. He spat on the ground, the saliva splattering onto my clothes, soaking them. I lowered my head, waiting for him to leave. Nearby, the street buzzed with the sound of motorbike horns. Pedestrians and vehicles rushed past the road, as if competing for their lives. After an eternity, footsteps approached, casting a shadow over me. He’s gone, my sister said. She helped me up, and we returned to the mall to continue trying on the red dress. Back to the street of our childhood, we ascended the stairwell, climbing to the top floor, to our makeshift dwelling constructed of sheet metal. The heat was suffocating. We kicked open the wooden door, revealing a space cluttered with dust and disarray. I grabbed an old broom behind the door, striking the piled-up boxes, abandoned bicycles, and broken chairs. The thuds of destruction echoed as I swung the broom. My sister laughed silently beside me, just like before. And me, I was still the same coward, suppressing rage, the trait other kids always noticed, making me tremble. The town gave me everything – the beast of hatred that roars inside me, trapped in my heart – it’s still there, even though I’ve tried to cover it with a prestigious college degree, dieting, plastic surgery, designer clothes, and money. It gnaws at me, blurring flesh and blood. Through the window, I saw a cat on the opposite balcony, seemingly mocking us. It leaped down, strolling into the living room where its owner, a cozy nest, and delicious cat food awaited. Its taunting gaze scorched me. I joined my sister, forcing a smile. Laugh, she said. As long as we keep smiling, the shadows can never claim us. So, we laughed, tears mingling with our laughter. We laughed in the dilapidated, abandoned shack until a small bird perched on the window, watching us, stopping us in our tracks, too ironic to continue.
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Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. She’s also an editor at Bewildering Stories. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her husband and daughter.