I’m going to start doing a writing section called throw back Thursdays where I share some of my old writing. Here’s this short story that I wrote around last year! Enjoy!
Day 1:
The four members of the Hu family quietly prodded at the General Tso’s chicken and Rice with their cheap chopsticks. The Chinese takeout from Asia Palace sat awkwardly on the splintered, wooden table. Ling didn’t know why Chinese people always ordered Chinese takeout, but she didn’t argue with her parents’ decisions. The atmosphere was tense as always, but at least all four family members were not fighting or hiding under beds. Ling glanced sideways at her little brother, Qian, who was trying to pick up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. Finally, Qian gave up and used one of the chopsticks to skewer before shoving it in his mouth. Ling felt guilty that she would be leaving for college next year– that she would be leaving Qian in the chaos of their family alone.
Ling’s almond-shaped, chocolate eyes flitted across the kitchen, remembering all of the bad memories and the few good ones. In all the years Ling’s family had lived in the house, Ling had never once had a friend over. In fact, the home had no friends. The crumbling walls held next to no furniture as if the Hu family was preparing to leave at any moment.
Mr. Hu pounded his fist on the table, breaking the safe silence into a million pieces. “Ling! Concentrate on eating!”
Ling jumped, and quickly shoveled a blob of rice into her mouth. She grudgingly gripped the rusty, metal key that hung around her neck tightly until it drew blood, holding in her bitter words of resentment. Ling didn’t want any trouble tonight. Mrs. Hu looked suspiciously at Ling, nervously fixing her already perfectly placed, raven strands of hair. On the other side of the table, Qian innocently licked sauce from the corner of his lips.
The Hu family continued to eat in prolonged silence, a thin sheet of ice one vibration away from cracking.
Day 21:
Ling came in through the front door, wringing the water out of her long, dark black hair that clung clumsily at her waist. She had a bag of groceries toted on each arm and she went to the kitchen to put things in their places.
Putting things in the refrigerator was one of Ling’s favorite tasks. The peppers went in the vegetable drawer, the strawberries belonged in the fruit drawer and the cheese was put in the dairy drawer. Each item had a clear place and when you put them there, they didn’t move. Ling smiled to herself, twisting the key that hung from her neck around her pinky finger in satisfaction.
Afterwards she went to check on her family. Qian was already sleeping and she kissed him on the head, adjusting his blue, fleece blanket.
Next, she went to go check on her mother. Mrs. Hu was staring out the window intently, watching the pitter-patter of the raindrops hit the concrete in front of their house. Mrs. Hu turned around and gave Ling a half-hearted nod before returning to glare at the rain.
“Ma, what are you doing?” Ling asked cautiously. A feeling of dread loomed over Ling’s head like a permanent raincloud.
“It’s raining,” Mrs. Hu responded, matter-of-factly. Ling let out a sigh between her teeth and threw a blanket over her mother.
“Go to sleep, Ma,” Ling hissed coldly. Mrs. Hu gave a half-nod, not even hearing her daughter.
Mr. Hu entered the room, a bowl of hot soup in his strong, tanned hands. He laid his palm gingerly on Mrs. Hu’s shoulder and presented his creation to her. Mrs. Hu smiled at him, taking the soup into her lap. Her bony hand wavered before raising the spoon to her thin lips and slurping up the food. Her eyes looked appraisingly up at her husband’s worried, dark brown ones before returning to stare out the window. Taking advantage of her distraction, Mr. Hu’s hands shot into his pockets, pulling out a small orange bottle of prescription pills labeled “Chlorpromazine”. Ling looked away as her father carefully put one into Mrs. Hu’s soup.
Ling returned to her own room. The four walls were painted a sickly yellow– a color her mother had insisted was a cheerful one. Instead, it reminded Ling of the time Qian rode too many of the teacups at Kings Island’s Amusement Park.
Ling’s bed sat in the corner of her room, adjacent to the window. It was not even really a bed– simply an old mattress. It was a sad thing, yellowed from age. Sadder still, it was the only thing in Ling’s room remotely close to furniture.
Ling walked up to the black violin case that lay next to her bed. It was covered with a small, tattered blanket, a weak attempt on hiding its presence. Ling removed the key from her neck and stuck it in the case’s lock. She smiled as the key fit in with a click and the case opened. Lock and key. She examined her violin with a rare sort of admiration– the old oak and its beautiful strings glistening in the moonlight.
Heavy footsteps approached and Ling slammed her case shut in a panic, throwing the blanket back over it. Mr. Hu opened Ling’s door, lingered for a few seconds, and left with an annoyed grumble.
Day 40:
“Stop, please,” Ling begged. She tried to remain calm and collected for the sake of her little brother. Mrs. Hu’s bloodshot eyes looked at them, panic written across her face in permanent marker. In her frail, bony hands, Mrs. Hu held a .22 caliber hunting rifle. She pointed it frantically around the room, her beady black eyes darting around in fear.
“Make them stop and I’ll stop,” Mrs. Hu croaked.
“Mama. There’s no one there,” Ling said shortly. Irritation slipped into her voice like poison.
“Why can’t they see you?!” Mrs. Hu yelled at the wall in frustration. “No!!! They’ve seen my face. Hide!” Mrs. Hu yelled hysterically. She began to claw at her own face, her long fingernails drawing blood.
Qian’s grip around Ling tightened. Ling pushed him gently back behind her and they braced themselves for the thundering noise they knew was coming.
The room was still afterwards like there was not a drop of life left in it. Mrs. Hu proudly wiped back droplets of sweat that clung onto her too-large forehead as she admired the giant hole in their pasty, living room wall.
“I killed them. You’re safe now,” Mrs. Hu chirped. Qian began to cry quietly and Ling gently hushed him.
Day 41:
Ling found a scrap of paper tacked to the front door. Dread flooded through her sharply. Before she even read the note, she knew what it would say. Ling tore the paper off the door before opening it. She walked slowly– numbly– to her parents’ room. Her dad– her tough-as-nails dad– was crying in the corner.
It was real. Ling retreated out of the room, the last word of her mother’s note haunting her.
Farewell.
Day 45:
The Hu siblings were regulars at Five Guys. The cashier knew their order of an astounding 10 cheeseburgers and fries before they even arrived and had grown accustomed to their odd mannerisms. The red, cushioned corner booth even had their names printed on the table in sloppy sharpie marks.
Qian and Ling ate as quickly as they could, ignoring the stares of others. Qian shoved fries into his mouth like a heathen while Ling examined his tiny features. He was so young, so vulnerable. His mommy had left. She wasn’t coming back.
“Why is she like that?” Qian muttered. Ketchup dribbled down his chin sloppily.
“She’s sick, honey.” Ling explained gently. Mrs. Hu had a severe case of Paranoid Schizophrenia and despite the Doctor’s prescriptions, it was incurable. Qian didn’t care if she was sick; he wanted her back. Ling ruffled Qian’s head after licking the salt residue from the fries off of her fingers. Ling wanted more than anything to take his pain. Qian didn’t push the topic further.
Day 70:
“Ling?” Qian whispered, sticking his head in the bedroom door. “Can you play the violin for me? Vitali Chaconne?”
“Sure,” Ling nodded, reaching for her violin case.
She took off the key that hung around her neck and unlocked the case with a click. Vitali Chaconne was Qian’s favorite, its heart-wrenching melody seeming to capture the sort of raw emotion that engulfed him.
As soon as the eerie notes left her instrument, Qian’s face grew lax, his heavy lidded eyes drifting closed as sleep took him.
***
The sound of a fist hitting flesh woke Qian with a start. Panic filled his lungs when he saw Mr. Hu hovering menacingly over Ling.
“ What did I tell you about playing that stupid thing in the house?”
Mr. Hu couldn’t describe the type of anger that was bubbling through him. That song. That song sounded like Mrs. Hu.
Ling hugged her violin protectively but she was no match for Mr. Hu. He pulled it out of her iron grip and mockingly dangled it in her face before raising it above his balding head and smashing it into the ground. The instrument shattered like glass, wooden shards exploding over the floor.
Ling didn’t speak as she got up off the ground. She didn’t see the fist before it hit her again.
“It’s your fault she left. Why didn’t you keep her here? You made your own mother leave,” Mr. Hu yelled at her.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ling said quietly. Mr. Hu looked at his daughter’s face as if coming out of a trance, and then looked at his fist as if he had no idea how he had gotten there. The too-familiar look of frustration crossed his face and he stalked over to her violin case, breaking it in two.
The only thing Ling’s key had fit into was now broken. Her life was even more broken.
Day 89:
“I’m scared. Why can’t you come with me?” Qian noticed his sister’s nervous habit of biting her lips had manifested ten-fold and her mouth was bleeding from doing it excessively. Ling bent down, adjusted Qian’s backpack and kissed him. The broken skin of her lips felt rough against his cheek.
“Because Grandma only has room for one person,” She said calmly, attempting to put cheer in her voice. “And you, are that one person!”
“What if I get lost?”
“You won’t, silly. Look, I outlined everything. The directions, what bus you need to take, and how much you need to pay. She’s expecting you, and you love Grandma, don’t you?” Ling gave the circled map, and a long, detailed list of instructions to Qian.
“Yeah, I love Grandma. She’s normal and doesn’t hit me,” Qian said, suddenly looking very small. “But, what about you, Ling?”
“I’m going off to college in a few days. I’ll come to visit you every day.”
“I don’t believe you. You lie to me a lot to make me feel better.”
“I promise, baby,” Ling said sticking out her pinky. Instead, Qian wrapped his arms around her and began to sob into her ugly clothes. “Everything is going to be alright, Qian,” Ling assured him.
“Ling, are we going to die?” Qian asked, his face buried in Ling’s shoulder.
“Yes, everyone does eventually.”
“Are we going to die soon, though?”
“You’re too young to die, Qian.” Ling rocked her little brother back and forth.
“Ling, what would you do if I died?” Qian asked. He pulled his face back from Ling’s shoulder so he could see her face. She contemplated the question, her small, freckled nose wrinkling in frustration. Her dark, almond eyes met Qian’s seriously.
“I would go to death with you,” Ling finally said. Qian kissed his sister’s cheek and the two sat there, hugging each other for several minutes. Finally Ling pulled back.
“Go, buddy. When you get to Grandma’s, call me. Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you immediately.”
“Promise me?”
“Promise,” said Qian. He gently untangled himself from his sister, memorizing every detail of her, including the rusty key that hung around her neck. He wondered why she still had it around her neck if it no longer fit into anything. Qian hugged his sister one last time before getting on the bus.
That night, Ling didn’t get a call.
Day 100:
Ling pulled back the blinds, watching her father’s truck drive away with a sigh of relief. The days he went to work were the best. She turned around to talk to Qian only to remember he wasn’t there anymore.
Ling had sent Qian to go live at their Grandmother’s house a few days ago. She was unstable and their father was now making a habit of using them as human punching bags. Although she knew it was for the best, she missed Qian’s pudgy little hands and the hugs that he always gave her.
She should’ve been in college by now but her father had refused to let her go, saying that if she went, he would kill Qian with the rifle her schizophrenic mother had purchased. Mrs. Hu had never returned and it seemed everything had officially fallen apart.
To be totally honest, Ling was worried. She continuously checked the answering machine and her voicemail, but Qian still hadn’t called her. She threw her hair over one shoulder, biting her lip nervously. Qian was just probably having too much fun at Grandma’s to call. He would call.
An hour passed and Ling decided to go swimming. She took off her clothes and got in her pool, not caring if she was naked or that her perverted neighbor was staring at her from his window. She turned on her back and stared at the sky sadly, wondering why she was chosen as the root for all this suffering. The day became a blur of colors fading into each other from blue into orange and into a dark navy. The clear sky darkened and tiny stars began to wink at her, looking like snow in contrast to their obsidian background. Qian had still not called.
Ling dried off and went back inside, throwing on her only shirt, splitting at the seams from overuse, and her favorite thrifted jeans. She looked outside at the night, recalling the conversation that she had with Qian. Where the Hell was he? Ling traced the cuts that laced the inside of her arm and sighed. She pulled the blinds down and turned around, marching into the kitchen.
She rummaged through the medicine cabinet, until the desired bottle crossed paths with her fingers. She read the tiny print on the label sadly: “Chlorpromazine”. She unscrewed the cap and took seven, magical, little pills.
***
The world passed in a haze.
***
She twisted the key that hung around her neck tracing its shape in Sharpie on her hand. The lines in her palm seemed to frame the thick marks of the Sharpie like expensive, leather cushions.
Ling laid down on the kitchen floor, the cold tile feeling good against her too-warm body. Everything seemed wrong. The way the pictures in their house hung crookedly over holes from Mrs. Hu’s shotgun, the way the phone sat still after too many days, and the way that her key no longer fit into anything. She closed her eyes, letting herself cry for the first time in years. Her tears were salty and Ling wondered why. Ling opened her dark brown eyes, bloodshot with sorrow and everything that was wrong with the world.
A cockroach climbed slowly across the floor. It wobbled unsteadily, its ugly brown figure strangely warped before her eyes. It seemed like it took years before it finally reached the other side of the kitchen and disappeared from view. Even the cockroach had left her.
She turned on her side and looked at the window. Moonlight shone through the cracks of her blinds, the strange silver hue reminding her of the edge of a blade. She flipped her body over once again, eyeing the compartment for knives.
The clock ticked loudly in her ears, overpowering her senses. She wanted the noise to stop. But it wouldn’t stop. Time never stopped for anyone no matter what happened. Time didn’t care. Time wouldn’t miss anyone.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The noise exploded like tiny heartbeats in Ling’s ears and she didn’t know if the next actions were hers or if her hands had minds of their own.
Ling reached up for the knife, feeling its familiar surface in her hand. She stared at it for half a more second before abruptly plunging it deep into her palm. She traced the sharpie marks she had made before with the blade, carving out her own flesh but not feeling the pain. What was pain, anyways? Ling looked down at the blood and the chunk of flesh that used to be her hand.
There was so much red around Ling. Ling realized it was her blood. She looked down, trying to find her reflection in the thick, dark, red liquid. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t find her face. Blood didn’t give off a reflection. Ling angrily punched her fist into the tile. She screamed in frustration.
Ling furrowed her brow. Blood was supposed to be warm, but she felt so cold– like snow was eating her alive. Her teeth chattered.
Ling looked back at her hand with a deep gaping hole in it. It was perfect.
Ling unfastened the key from her neck and shoved it into her palm. It clicked into place with a loud squish. It fit. It actually fit.
Ling smiled. Something in her life had finally fit.
Ling couldn’t stop smiling, pride filling her chest. It was getting harder to breathe. Her surroundings were growing more and more blurry. Her tongue felt as if it was stuck in a desert. Soon, her other senses became numb and fuzzy. Ling closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Shortly after, the phone rang. Ling never picked it up.
©RubyQLiu
His casual boat shoes (usually more preppy) and beanie contrast with each other in their stereotypical styles but match in their laid-back casualness, adding a comfortable contrast. Furthermore, Hardik’s grey beanie matches the grey of his structured pants, adding more cohesion to the look. Hardik’s pants are more structured than the rest of his outfit (his hat quarter-zip are both more soft in material), elevating his look past just “I woke up like this”, while it still appears comfortable.
Written in Rubies 
