John Lane Short Story Competition 2020

Nicholas Miao

‘So where are you from?’ She asked, casually scanning my shopping. A
social nicety, I'm sure. Nothing too dramatic. I hesitated. ‘I’m from Hong Kong,’ I said,
after an awkward pause as if for a second I had forgotten where I was from. ‘But I
live in Monmouth.’ I always felt the need to add that supplementing detail nobody
asked for. Besides, that wasn’t even what she was asking. She asked where I was
from, not where I lived. Anyway I always add that extra detail, because I guess I’m
still not sure where I belong. I mean sure, I grew up in Hong Kong so I guess you
could say that’s where I belong. But I don’t know. I don’t even know if that city’s
worth fighting for anymore. I think it’s nice to be in Monmouth. It’s certainly a nice
contrast. And I’ve lived here for three years so I think I’m pretty used to this place
now. Hell, the staff at One Stop recognises me by face they stopped asking me for
ID ages ago. I don’t suppose it’s too difficult to recognise an Asian guy who only ever
buys the cheapest drink in store. But I don’t know if that counts as belonging. And I
don’t know if I can afford to forget about the fight in Hong Kong. Anyway, I told the
cashier lady that ‘I’m from Hong Kong but I live in Monmouth.’ It’s probably easier to
say that than explaining my whole identity crisis with a queue behind me.

I picked up the groceries and headed home. Not home. I was heading back to
my Aunt’s in Newport, but I’m not sure if that’s ‘home.’ Where’s home then? I don’t
know. I used to take it for granted that Hong Kong was home until probably this
summer when our mayor told us that young people ‘have no stake in the society’
because apparently the economy was more important than whether we will continue
to have rights or not. I always thought I mattered a bit, but I guess not anymore. And
of course my parents agreed with the government. These adults. They’re so short-
sighted they only care about what’s good for them immediately. Of course they don’t
care if I will have rights or not. They don’t have to face the consequences; I do. But
they don’t care. I tried telling them. I said ‘I’ll have to pay for your inaction.’ I even
quoted Thomas Paine. I wrote a whole essay on it and sent it to the family group
chat, but I don’t think they were amused. The other week my Dad yelled at me over
the phone because of that. It’s actually fascinating how passionately irrational a man
can be. It was a bit sad as well, you’d thought he would’ve matured a bit by his age.
But that’s OK. I’m just glad I’m not in Hong Kong, because that would’ve been a daily
occurrence. It’s like the white terror, and there’s an elephant in the room I’m not
allowed to point out. I’d hate that, not being able to speak or think freely. I think that’s
why I stayed here over Easter. I’d actually rather get a mild version of the
coronavirus than have my autonomy suppressed by my ultra-conservative parents
for five whole weeks. That’d be far worse. Anyway I don’t think I can call this place
home. Maybe I should just call it something impersonal, like ‘the apartment’,
independent of all the connotations of ‘warmth’ and ‘belonging’ of a home.

I walked up the front door and opened it. It wasn’t locked. My Aunt leaves it
that way when she’s in. And of course her lovely cats were there. I like cats. I mean
it’s in my last name so no surprises there. Anyway I think I feel more at home here
than I do back in ‘the apartment.’ Certainly I don’t feel threatened or afraid. It’s a free
country and I think I like it. Like I didn’t have to worry about being yelled at by my
Dad when he felt like it because I held different views to him or be arrested for
participating in what they call an ‘unlawful assembly’ or be stopped and searched
and arrested anyway because I ‘looked young’ so I ‘must also be a rioter’ or worry
about the impending crackdown by the People’s Liberation Army stationed across
the border – you know, the usual worries back in ‘the apartment.’ Nothing too
dramatic.

I cuddled with one of the cats. She had lovely blue eyes but she was also
shedding a lot of hair, which is annoying, but that’s OK. I like thinking about cats. Or
anything, really, that’s not the usual stuff back in ‘the apartment.’ Honestly I might get
depression if I stayed there for any longer, because nobody sees a way out of this
crisis except in bloodshed. We’re past the point of no return, but I don’t want to think
about that. I want to think about cats. I want to do normal teenage stuff like go out
with friends without being teargassed or get inconsiderately drunk without having to
worry about the impending doom. I think that’s why I’m here anyway, but I don’t think
I belong. I don’t know. I might have too much to lose and if I back out now I might not
have a future in Hong Kong. Nor my kids. Nor my grandkids. It’s a battle we’re bound
to lose, but we’ll have to fight it anyway. Or I don’t know. It’s all doom and gloom I
don’t like thinking about it. I’ll have to decide at some point. But until then I will say
‘but I live in Monmouth’ because I don’t want to decide. Not now. Right now I just
want to cuddle with the cat and get its hair all over me, which is annoying, but that’s
OK.