Final

Festival

Today is Christmas Eve. The biting wind blows the debris up into the grey air. My sister, Angel, laughs at my purple face and teases me for my cold blue blood. The paper thin sweater had long lost its bright red colour, and is now yellow, like rotten lemon peels. I want to wear something nice on our Saviour’s birthday, but my mother simply dries her tears with the stiff fabric. She shushes me, saying, ‘Our Lord will still love us no matter what we wear.’ Alas! That’s not true. When Angel wears her lovely grey t-shirt, the old man, clothed in white, has always given her a candy.  

 

Searching for gems in the landfill, we play hide and seek until the sun comes up. Angel always exposes her spot with hoarse coughing. Still, when a new rubbish truck comes, we roar with laughter — the mirth is in turn swallowed by the howling of the winter gale. The plastic flies around like ribbons so I tie one to Angel’s hair. The break of dawn glows softly around her silhouette like a halo. Someone finds an apple, half eaten by humans, half bitten by rats. We fight for it, the red apple skin alluring, the wind unforgiving. Angel searches for scraps of food that is temporarily forgotten. She hides a hamburger in her pocket. We share amongst ourselves behind the mountain of cement. Flies always buzz pass us, landing on some hidden food. But it’s winter now, so they are sleeping. I hope Angel’s coughing won’t wake them up. Being the bigger brother, I give Angel the beef patty. My eyes watch bob, wondering how good that must have tasted but she almost chokes herself by coughing. We scaveng for more bits of metal — sometimes if Lady Luck favours us, we would find coins. It starts to snow. Tom sneezes, Angel shivers next to me. Her face red, just like an apple. We plough through the sawdust, coughing and sneezing, spite flying with the snowflakes. Most children are at home, snuggled next to mother’s bosom. But our father has not returned, he was yanked out of his bed by a furious man, cursing and scratching they moved into the starless dark. Our flesh is long frozen by tears, and no one utters a word, huddling together, bone to bone, our mother kisses us good night. But now, our stomach rumbles for food, so we stay in the blizzard. A snowflake tickled my side and Angel is dancing around with the snowflakes, small and endearing. They fall in my nose when I breathe too hard. They also fall in Angel’s thinning hair. Her moves are burdened, clenching her shirt when she slows down, like the dandelion, she returns to my side. Midday sun melts like candies. I am so hungry. 

 

Our Father, hear your children’s calls! In the solemn night, our neighbour has screamed. In the singing wind, I hear it faintly, like thread of plastic entwining. 

 

I carry metal on my back. It is getting heavier and heavier. Will we finally eat bread? Drooling at the fragrance of freshly grind wheat, I find a sheen of rainbow, chewing on it, I realised it was just plastic. Angel pulled at my sleeve, ‘Can we go to the parade?’ 

 

‘After we get five dollars.’

 

She agrees silently, tripping over a pile of newspaper, falling like a yellow leaf. When our back ache and my hands bleed, we go to the waste metal collection spot. It is closed. Angel stares at it with mouth agape, spitting blood on the snow. I wipe the stain away with my sleeve. 

 

‘Merry Christmas! Celebrate holiness without trash! 

To be opened at the 15th of January,’ the obnoxious banner screams. 

 

‘Does it hurt?’

 

She nods, ‘Mum says it will go away in a few days.’

 

I squeeze her petite hand and kiss her unsuspecting curling lips, ‘Let’s go elsewhere.’

 

After checking prices with the third spot, we sell our crushing load. In our trembling hand, fives coins burn with the glare of the sun. Though the sun filters the world with unparalleled clearness, there is no heat on her skin, I hug her closer to my side.  

 

‘Can we go to the parade?’ Angel looks up with her shimmering eyes, wide with expectation. ‘Please?’

 

‘We give the money to mum first.’

 

Mum is sitting in front of the sewing machine, clenching her stomach. The untamed hunger looms over the ceiling. Our weird neighbour gave birth yesterday, she was clawing at the bed sheet, and yelling like an animal. A strange pulp of flesh was born, raw and purple. It never cried or moved, like pork. Beads of sweat bled out of our neighbour’s murky skin and tears trail down her cheeks, glittering like stars. Cradling the ugly creature in her dangling s, she murmured something about milk. Shuddering, I push the coins into her hands while grasping my sister’s hand. Together, we flee for the parade. Peering out of an alley, the parade is bursting with neon. My eyes fall on marshmallows, pink like a blossom bud. I cough out a few snowflakes. 

 

‘That teddy bear is so cute,’ Angel giggles beside me. I kiss her hand and said, ‘Christ is our teddy bear, he will give you the best presents.’

 

She hums in contentment while we crept along the fence. Cutting my feet on the spikes, I fond a broken section. Through it we enter. In the centre is a barn, clean and majestic. In it sits a family of four. They hold hands and say a prayer. 

 

‘He looks like a pig,’ Angel says. 

 

I shush her, ‘You shouldn’t say that. Christ will be angry.’

 

Widening her eyes, she says, ‘But doesn’t Christ create pigs? He must love pigs as well?’

 

‘Lord, please bless our children with good health. We are grateful for the bread and wine. Pray to help us fight temptations, and love our neighbours. In your name, we have donated a hundred pounds to the poor and needy. Pray that they will be happy in your birthday. Blessed are the content. Amen.’

 

The boy who is holding his breath, sees us and screams. Crying in hysterics, he hollers for his parents. The security guards chase us out, something about the uncleanliness in God’s place. Angel squeezes my hands and cries. Her raw red eyes must be stinging, so I carried her on my back. We trudge on our way back home. 

 

‘Guess what’s in my hand?’

 

She sniffles and peers out. In my hand shines a sheen of rainbow. 

 

‘Is it a candy?’

 

I hummed in reply. The hard candy is melting in my hand. 

 

‘Braddie, what flavour is it?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ closing my hand and whisper, ‘You don’t like it?’

 

‘No...’ she coughs, tugging my hair, ‘You eat it. Mum would give it to you.’

 

Slightly puzzled, I pop the candy into my mouth. I taste rainbow, sweet sweet, like a flutter of dream. It was gone as soon as it came. The sweetness soon tastes sour. 

 

‘What flavour is it?’

 

I still don’t know, ‘It is strawberry. Your favourite.’

 

She her lips and sings, ‘Unicorn! Fairies! Sugar-plum!’

 

‘What is a sugar plum?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ she ponders. ‘Sugar Plum!’

 

We giggled on the way home accompanied with a choir of coughs. The five coins become dry heavy brick of bread. We squeal in delight while mum is fast asleep. We then sit at the door and look at the sunset. 




 

‘Bye, bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,’ Angel breaths out. We heard it on the radio someday, nobody knows what it means, not even the cabbies. The sunset twirls and stirs up colours, first, like blooming roses, red, orange and yellow. Then, they die down into ashes of blue, green and violet. 

 

‘And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singin' this'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die’

 

I hum as Angel forgets the lyrics. I feel bad for interrupting the lovely song with coughing, but she never minds and dances on.

 

‘We gotta dance!’ Angel jumps around. The sky gets exceptionally dark, and mum hollers for us go back. We devour the bread after a brief prayer, saving half of it for tomorrow. Angel starts to shiver violently, her forehead blazes under my numb palm. We layer her with blankets, cuddling next to her. Silently, she begins to cry, small and muffled, as her blood colours the blankets bright red. Mum starts to chant rosemary for forgiveness. 

 

‘I want to sleep. Will our Saviour give me teddy bear?’ 

 

Kissing her cold cheeks, I tell her, ‘I am your teddy bear.’

 

Mother slices the bread and turns to feed Angel bit by bit. Angel turns her head to avoid it, ‘I don’t wanna eat.’ Murmuring in my hair, ‘I don’t. I want sugar plum. I want to sleep.’ My stomach churns, her face drained of colour. I shake her while my wild tears flood the thin blankets. 

 

‘Braddie... Don’t cry. Our Saviour likes to see you smile. Mum says so.’

 

‘Stay awake, Angel. Let’s see the sun rise together? We can dance. And sing. And... I don’t know... We can go chase the rainbow. Look at unicorn! And... Sugar plum!’

 

She looks at me with wide eyes, sparkling. Mum rubs her back soothingly, strangely composed. 

 

‘My baby, you are alright. Christ loves you dearly. He will clothe you in gold and calls you his Child.’

 

Her eyes dims into a hollow street lamp. Her coldness seeps through the blankets and drifts into a dreamless sleep. The house is eerily quiet. We huddle together, waiting for dawn to kiss our lids, waiting for warmth to fill our home again. 





 

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