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Part VII
How did I get home? I don’t know. There is a
story I have found online, a photo from the
Apple Daily: A couple lies on a desk, holding hands,
looking at each other with dead, black eyes. The
man’s shirt is soaked black with blood, all but the
white collar. More blood runs from the woman’s
neck, like a scarf which pools on the floor. On the
ground, over and over again, are words written
in blood: “I love you.”
I looked back through Joanna’s essays. The work
is my own, word for word. I do not know why I did
not see it before. The paper is not pink. It is a deep,
dark red. It is wet to the touch.
You can fly 6,000 miles from home: but still your
past chases you. Like jetlag, it doesn’t hit at first.
But it always follows. Another city. Another brilliant
student. Another—
I must tell someone about this. Someone must
know what I have done. But my neighbors must be
out. They’re not answering their doors. No one’s
picking up the phone. My emails won’t send. Skype
doesn’t work. Can no one hear me shouting?
So I must write. I must keep writing. I must tell
you what I did. I can’t stop until you know. Until
everyone knows. But I’m out of ink. I don’t have any
more bloody ink. Where am I going to find the ink?
“I must write.
I must keep writing.
I must tell you what I did.“
HK MAGAZINE FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2014 19