Zhangwei’s Tale
Michelle Fash
lone figure sat on the wall, facing the sunset. Burnt brown by prolonged exposure to the dry desert
sun, the silhouette rose and turned, revealing a boy of about fourteen. With his wide set eyes, the boy
gazed down. Here, on the wall, he felt as if he was on top of the world. It was an addicting feeling.
crum
ing, Group 4: Fiction, Maryknoll Convent School Secondary Section
His brother had shown him this spot. He had taught him to navigate through the precarious,
bling stones that made up the wall. The way was so treacherous that very few dare climb it,
making the place quiet. It was a sanctuary for them, a place to escape to when the world became too harsh and
bitter for the young boys to bear.
A
That was before his brother got sick, before he was bedridden with illness – an illness that would take
them all out, eventually. Every person here was resigned to that fate. The slow, painful death would constantly
be looming above them, threatening to wipe them out. Their deaths never were a question of ‘How?’, only a
question of ‘When?’ Take himself, Zhangwei , for example. His mother died when the illness had gotten into
her blood. Her sister died because the illness had spread to her glands. Now, it was his brother’s turn. The illness
had already invaded his bones, and he would last another 2 days, at most.
Flashes of light from the single high-rise building below him caught his attention. Four flashes, each
three seconds long. Seeing that, Zhangwei ran, over the wall, down the hill and towards the building.
Behind him, the wall spanned across the land, grey, winding and long, one of the few indications that
there used to be civilization in this barren land. All that’s left of this place is the scorched desert and patches of
concrete where cities, people and life used to be. A hundred years ago, this place was called China, one of the
most resourceful and flourishing countries in the world, a “superpower” they called it. Now it’s called SiDi, the
Land of Death.
Nearer the riverbank, where there’s water, a few tribes have stayed on, stubbornly trying to survive.
There, pollution riddled the land. The soil was toxic with heavy metals, and everything that grew from it was
black; the water was saturated with acidic chemicals, and had to be distilled before it can be drunk; the
atmosphere was contaminated by radiation, causing mutations in all life forms. Still, these tribes managed to live
on.
In one of the smaller tribes, the tribe of Zhang, Zhangwei had reached the building, and was running up
flights of stairs, hurrying to his brother’s deathbed. His brother had cancer, like so many others in the tribe.
More than 90% of those who died last year had died of cancer. This year, the number dropped to 70%, but that
was probably because of the flood in May that killed a few families. More people have drowned. Zhangwei
thought that drowning would be an easier death, compared to cancer. Cancer was drawn out, messy and full of
suffering; drowning was quick and short.
His brother had been diagnosed for two years. Without healing supplies, there wasn’t any cure. The
tribe ate, drank and breathed cancer. It had been ingrained into their DNA.
Zhangwei burst into the room, startling the figures huddled around the bed. His father looked at him
with eyes full of sadness and said gruffly, “You’re too late, son.” Despair ripped though his heart, and tears
welled up in the boy’s eyes, but he refused to cry. He thought he would have have gotten used to death by now,
seeing so many people around him die.
His brother’s wife was sobbing quietly in the corner, while desperately rocking their two year old
daughter, now without a father, in her arms. A death at nineteen was sad and pitiful, no matter how expected it
was, no matter how much time you had to prepare for it.
A two day mourning period was observed. Any marriages planned were delayed and any birthday
celebrations were cancelled. This was the most they could afford. Deaths happened too frequently for any longer
mourning.
Zhangwei had stood on their spot on the wall, where he yelled into the air. He screamed of the
unfairness of it all. He wailed in frustration about their pathetic lives, constantly living in fear of this illness. He
howled with the sadness of those loved ones, the ones that get left behind.
Exhausted, he slumped back against the wall, and finally let himself weep for the loss of his brother.
This was worse than when his mother and sister died. He was young then. He didn’t really understand what was
happening. Now the pain felt like it was too much to bear, like it was tearing a hole from the inside. His brother,
his best friend, his guide has gone, never to return.