Confessions of a Chinese Stranger

The empty streets of Manhattan are the only places I have ever remembered as home. It doesn’t matter if I head on to the Upper East Side or downtown, the sound of my purring ride roaring across the streets is enough to blow off anyone wanting to pick a fight with me. My name? You don’t really need to know, most of them just call me a Chinese man.1

“Drop down on the floor! Put your hands up!” A coarse heavy voice hollered behind my back, the sound of his gun holstered caused my blood to suddenly freeze.2

It wasn’t anything surprising though, nothing to be afraid. Not even the piercing sirens from the junky police car, it’s part of my life. Dashing through the tight-knit, maze-like alleyways, I ran through each small entrance with familiarity. Each step I took made me delve into a darker tunnel; but the darkness is my friend, and their enemy.3

“Hey Hung! Come back here you coward!” My American companion yelled out to me, his voice shaking in fear due to the pistol pointed towards his head, “Didn’t we agree to stick out for each other?”4

“Stop struggling, or I’ll pin you down.”5

But he never stopped, that crazy fool.6

“You’ll pay for this man! You’ll see!” 7

He tried diving out of the police officer’s grasp, and wrestled the gun from the officer’s hand. But he was unaware that there were two on duty that night, and as soon as he grasped that black, deadly pistol, his eyes of false hope was brought to an end with a single, deafening sound. Boom.8

I heard his voice crying out for desperate help, but still I ran for my freedom. It’s every man for himself in this world. A few bullets were fired at my direction, each one growing closer to my fatality, but I took all measures to see to it that I lived. I ducked; I crawled and jumped in whatever fashion I believed would save my life.9

Seconds seemed like hours that very moment, the fear burdened me, and weighed me down more than a ton of lead would. Suddenly, I saw it, finally. Freedom was waiting right before my eyes – my motorcycle, the only friend I could really trust. Nothing could out drive or out maneuver me once I got on my ticket to home.10

I reached out to the motorcycle’s handles, ready to clench my palms on those steel-cast bars. Then right at that moment, I fell. It was a moment much briefer than light, I collapsed with a thud on the cold, concrete streets, my body trembling in unexplainable fear. I struggled with my hands to push myself up, to get up, but I could not. Finally giving in, my eyes gradually closed shut. My breath stopping short, I simply stared at the fading image of the wet streets painted red, stained perhaps with… my own blood. 11

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It’s been five months since I first tasted the dirt of this stinking wasteland. The cold, damp walls that deprive me of any pleasure of comfort torture my mind; and the tormenting day too is inescapable, as the sun beats down on my yellow, chipping skin as I am subject to hard labor – painful repentance and justice, they call it.13

“Chinese man! Come over here and start shoveling the dirt around this area, and bring the sandbags over here, hurry up!”14

I did as he said in utmost haste, without uttering a single word. It’s simpler that way, I’ve done it ever since I’ve first set foot in this prison, and in my small, dwarfed cell. Perhaps the only instances I’ve ever opened my mouth was if asked by the guards, otherwise I don’t see the point. The others around here pass their time playing chess, cards, or other wasteful social games, but I chose to work here for a reason. It’s not like these American inmates of mine will willingly talk to me and socialize. I may have been born in America, and have received an American education, but still they shun me.15

Why? This is because my appearance gives it all away - small brown eyes, dark hair, and pale, yellowish skin. My height may make me appear to be a tall, towering man amongst my own people in China, or even among my own neighbors back in Manhattan’s Chinatown, but here I am a midget, a hobbit among those large, husky convicts and prisoners. Aside from our physical appearances, we perfectly understand each other, I can play cards, basketball, communicate just as well as them; but there’s no point is there? I am what they all see and think of me – a Chinese stranger.16

“Get inside quickly!” 17

A struggling scream echoed from the front of the giant, impenetrable prison gates. I paused with my work to take a glance at the disturbing commotion, but it wasn’t something out of the ordinary. Another crazy prisoner struggling to escape, but he’s already in the claws of punishment, there’s no escaping once you’re in jail. 18

“I didn’t do it! Let me go!” The new prisoner called out, he pointed at me with his trembling hands, trying to reach out, and said, “You there! Don’t I look innocent to you? I am a good man!”19

I turned my head away as soon as he looked at me with those annoying, pitying eyes. What a lunatic. As soon as he was dragged far away from me, I peered through the screens of barbed wire to examine this new inmate of mine. He was an African American, or black as most people call them, but quite smaller than the typical ones I see when I take the subways back at home. I listened curiously to the other guard reading the prisoner’s files, in order to find out what he was charged with.20

“Wayne Johnson. Charged with the murder of two, sentenced to lifetime imprisonment.”21

Murder. Killing brings death. Murderers are the lowest form of people in the world, they’ve no respect for life, no mercy, no conscience, they simply relish in blood. I stared at him with anger, hatred and wrath, my blood pumping up as I saw him struggling to be free, his crime cannot be compared to mine. But suddenly, my infuriation changed into fear, when he looked back at me with piercing, lifeless eyes, as if someone or something had taken the very soul out of him. I dropped my tools and requested for an early break; and I tremblingly went back to my cell, shaken at the dagger-look he shot at me.22

That night I ate my dinner alone, as usual. It was an eerie feeling, sitting in a lone table all by yourself, while the rest of the inmates struggled to fit themselves in an over occupied wooden table that looks like it’s close to breaking down. Before I even stuck my fork into my meal, my heart raced, and then stopped as I felt an ominous presence draw near my back.23

“Hey, the others won’t let me sit with them, and besides, the other tables are full. Can I sit with you?” 24

It was that murderer Wayne, that scoundrel! Strange enough though, his eyes did not bear that same vengeance as it had this morning, it was glowing and bursting with life, as if he was, inside, happy. 25

“Fine.” I said, thinking that I did not have much choice. 26

I let him sit with me, yet I eyed him with suspicion and contempt all through dinner, not wanting to share anything personal with him. A person like him could not be trusted. 27

“What’s your name my good man?”28

“Call me whatever you wish, you don’t need to know the name of an alien like me.”29

“But I do, tell me.”30

“Hung. No surname, just Hung.” I replied with caution, taking care not to say more than what was asked of me.31

I took no effort to hide my deceit and disgust for him, not even bothering to look at him when I spoke; and Wayne noticed this. His demeanor shifted from a light mood to a slightly more serious one, his tone of voice gentle but still showing a hint for forcefulness, wanting to demand respect and acceptance from me.32

“Hung, may I ask you something? In fact, I want you to answer me straight, look me in the eye and say it. Stop avoiding me.”33

I held my aura of defense and caution around him, not willing to give an inch to his demands. But the bravado in his voice compelled me to look at him in his sharp, irritated eyes with obedience.34

“Why do you treat me like some sort of castaway? I’m no monster Hung, I’m a prisoner just like you, and we’re inmates! I’m no trashy mobster without morals, I’m human, and I want you to treat me like one.”35

“You, my equal? Who are you kidding? You are a murder, a criminal!”36

“And you? What gives you the right to speak so boldly? Are you not locked away serving time like me?”37

“We are different.” I said bluntly, “I was a drug dealer in Manhattan – weed, marijuana, these things do not murder, they have no hands that can bring about death. Only human hands murder, and it is you who did it, whether by gun or by blade, you took a life.”38

“Murder is not so simple as piercing through flesh and blood, you too are a murderer Hung. You have murdered the soul. And what worth is a life sullied with drugs, stained and unclean? You too take lives, and that too is murder.”39

I paused and pondered at the meaning of his words; my mind could not process the weight, the gravity of his deep, and admittedly insightful statement. I could think of nothing to reply Wayne’s words, it stuck on me like bullets upon an open flesh wound.40

“But why do you approach me? You are an American; you have companions, friends who will accept you. Do you not feel awkward talking to a man named Hung? A man who is undoubtedly a world apart from you?”41

Wayne chuckled, and smiled at me; his expression quite different from the cold-blooded murderer I saw him as this morning. He is perhaps the first person in this stupid cell to actually talk to me, and I never knew how having a friend felt, perhaps it is this way.42

“Because Hung,” he replied, “you know more than anyone else how it feels to be shunned, to be left alone and discarded like a used object. We are not quite different you and I, you of all people can relate to me, a castaway just like you.”43

“Our situations are different, I am not like you.”44

“My friend, I am tortured loner in this prison, and you are a shunned stranger in the outside world. I see nothing more similar than that.”45

He offered me his hand in some sort of friendly, welcoming gesture; although I am not quite sure how it goes. Shaking hands, it seems so foreign to me, when was the last time I did this? I cannot remember the last time I’ve even related to an American, and now here I was, relating my story to this sinful criminal; trusting him.46

“So, partners?”47

I looked at his outstretched palms, worn out and ragged, and with a pang of nervousness I shook it, just like a partner would.48

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It’s been over four months since I first met Wayne, and times sure have changed then. Wayne taught me to become more open, friendlier to the other prisoners. In fact, it was thanks to Wayne that I have a newfound group among my inmates. No longer do I have to sit on the table eating alone; they’ve accepted me through Wayne’s help. 50

Over the course of my stay though, Wayne is the only one I’ve ever completely trusted. The others may seem nice to me, but I suspect it’s because the eagle-eyed guards always keep a close eye out for disrupting prisoners, and extend their sentence as a punishment. And I don’t think those Americans, who’ve always had the opportunity to enjoy life with a family, with friends, would ever understand my situation – someone who was alone all his life.51

Wayne turned out to be innocent, or so he claimed. He may not have proof, but his words and sincerity were enough to convince me that he was not a murderer, perhaps an innocent man framed and unwilling to fight a hopeless, lopsided battle for justice. No one may believe him, but I do.52

After all, he is the only one who believes me, who understands why I am this way - a lost stranger wandering about in a foreign land. I have confessed to him all my secrets – my broken family, my forced deportation, my violent childhood and my criminal lifestyle. He understands that fate was cruel to me, and forced me to become this way. Only he knows of these confessions of mine, and I trust him.53

“Are you ready for tonight Hung?” Wayne quietly whispered to me. 54

“Hell yeah, let’s do this.”55

Wayne and I were preparing to escape this dull prison for months, and tonight we’d make it work. It was simple really; we created an estimated and cleverly guessed blueprint of the prison cell through our months of stay here. It’s quite a boon that Wayne knows how to draw, thanks to his architectural background. Don’t ask how he ended up in prison though, I couldn’t care less as long as he got me out.56

It was sheer luck that the guards provide us with old donated books, which we tore without mercy to use for our blue prints. The book we grew most fond with was the old 1987 Encyclopedia someone handed to us, because the bigger pages could serve as bigger blueprints. And for the pen and ink, we just asked some from those visiting priests who took pity on us. They never thought what we’d do with them, perhaps writing a diary?57

I took advantage of the fact that the guards became more lax with me as these months passed. They don’t bother to check the equipment I’ve taken and returned, since I always did return it. I took a pickax back to my cell one day, snapped off the flimsy, battered wooden handle and kept the steel top and a small part of the handle. Fortunately for me, the dead, dark end in our sector of the prison houses a path to the sewers, and ultimately, our freedom. With every opportunity given to me, I worked relentlessly, hitting the wall with uncontrollable rage. Timing was of the essence though, as I could only do it during the day when no one was in our sector. But only Wayne and I ever went to that dead end, no one bothered to check what we were doing. And even if they did, they wouldn’t snitch on us, after all, it is their ticket to freedom as well.58

After months of hitting relentlessly on a merciless wall, it finally cracked open to reveal our escape route, the sound of the sewers beating gloriously on our ears. We had to act tonight, or the horrible, rotten smell would give away our only chance of escape. 59

“Wayne, hurry up!” I hollered in a cautious and fearful voice, my feet trembling as I trotted upon the wet, watery surface of the sewers. 60

I paid no heed to the strange, awkward feeling as sewer water persistently climbed on my filthy pants, or how the filthy walls seemed to close in on me. I kept moving forward, with Wayne slowly tagging along my back, watching closely for people who might be pursuing us. Finally we reached the end of the sewer, all that’s left is to scale the steel ladders and then run through the thick sea of trees.61

A blinding flash of light suddenly struck us through our eyes, dazing us from our movement. A searchlight? There was no searchlight in Wayne’s blueprints, idiotic architect. Before we could react, deafening sounds of sirens echoed through the entire premises. But still I ran, I could not let this chance slip by.62

Quickly, I scaled the steel ladders down the walls with the guards gradually catching up to us. But Wayne proved to be a problem. This old geezer could not climb down a ladder, and he slipped halfway, barely holding on to a steel bar attached to the side of the ladder. One false move and he could perish, or break his bones after the ten-meter drop.63

“Hung! Come up here and help me.” He pleaded to me in a desperate tone, “Partners, remember?”64

I did not answer him. I stared at him for a brief second, but with eyes of anger, annoyance and spite. He caused this situation in the first place, and he deserves to die for it. I turned my tired back away from him, and continued to run towards the thick forest. He would prove to be a good distraction for the guards. 65

“Be useful for a change Wayne, stay alive and fight them off.”66

As I entered the forests, my heart paused when I heard a coarse and loud scream, followed by a thud to the cold hard ground. I could care less whether Wayne was dead or simply battered and broken, he served his purpose.67

I could feel the taste of victory and success as I stepped into the forests, the trees successfully masking my presence. As my feet traveled over the thick roots, my ankle got tangled in the aged, solid roots and the weight of my entire body collapsed onto the damp freezing forest ground. 68

“Wayne, help me up man!” 69

But there was no answer. Then a sudden realization shocked my nerves. Wayne is dead, or I presume he is. I left him there, and now I too will be left to die in this place. It was too much to hope that I would not be seen, that I would simply die in peace, unknown and unnoticed. But the rustling boots of the guards could be heard closing in on me, and as soon as a bright light centered on my haggard face, I knew I was done for.70

“Get up!” A hugely built guard ordered, untangling my feet and helping me get up.71

But as soon as my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I charged at the guard and struggled to break free of his iron-grip. I took the gun out of his holster, and shot in towards the direction of a guard, missing him by an inch. The guards grew cautious of me, taking care not to provoke me into firing my stolen pistol. 72

I ran as soon as I saw them demonstrate a sign of fear, but the paralyzing soon took over me, followed by another close encounter with death. I stumbled unto the ground again, the all-too-familiar pain of bullets piercing through my left leg. But I struggled, limping away from them. I will not be taken prisoner again. 73

With a shaking grip on my pistol, I fired ten shots towards them. Each one grazed the guards but proved useless in hindering them from approaching me. Feeling the heavy degree of danger from me, they saw no choice but to continue firing at me, not caring whether I was dead or alive.74

And I did not struggle this time. No, this is the right choice. After all, what will happen to me back in the prison, back in the real world? To my partner back in Manhattan, to Wayne, I was Hung. But to others, I am nothing. I am an alien, a mystery. Those who will acknowledge my death are dead, because to the rest, I am but a stranger.75

THE END76