My father always said that people are paper and memories are ink.
Little did I know, my book would be dipped in tar, then ripped to shreds.
I grew up with a generous father.
Money. Identity. Love. A nice set of morals—and an even nicer set of teeth. He gave me them all.
But the most precious thing he ever gave me?
His life.
Age Twelve.
Like all calamities, the worst day of my life started innocently enough.
Dad and I rode in the backseat of his Flying Spur Bentley, our driver veering in and out of lanes in a desperate bid to beat the heavy traffic. A never-ending chain of honks filled my ears.
The sky poured above us, a storm that had followed us from the auction house. The radio played “Bookends” by Simon and Garfunkel too loud to hear my own thoughts.
I could feel Dad’s eyes glued to the back of my head as I blew hot air onto the car window and drew a sword over the frost.
He sighed. “You could really use a hobby.”
“Hobbies aren’t useful. That’s why they’re hobbies.” I drew fingers curled around my sword and blood dripping from the tip. “Besides, I have hobbies.”
From the front, our driver snorted, flicking on the left signal.
“You have talents,” Dad corrected. “Just because you’re good at things doesn’t mean you enjoy them. And sitting idly all summer as you wait for your best friend’s return does not constitute a hobby.”
Stupid Romeo Costa.
He just upped and left one day. Didn’t even say goodbye. First to Italy in elementary school. And now some boring summer camp his dad forced him into.
He came back from Europe a total bummer. I half-expected him to return this time with a chunk of his brain carved out.
I blinked up at Dad. “Why do I need to enjoy the things I do?”
A soft smile curled his lips at the edges.
He was huge.
Or maybe he just looked huge because I hadn’t shot up all the way yet. But he filled up the entire backseat with his body.
With his presence.
With his onyx hair and laugh wrinkles on the sides of his eyes. And the wicked scar on his forehead he got while chaperoning Cub Scouts.
An eagle had tried to snatch me, and he’d lineman-tackled me at the last minute, bumping against a sun lounger and splitting his forehead.
Dad rapped my temple with a curved knuckle. “Because if you don’t appreciate the journey, how would you enjoy the destination?”
“Isn’t life’s destination death?” I pinned him with a glare, so I wouldn’t have to witness my art evaporating from the condensation on the window.
He laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“That’s not a no,” I murmured, itching to cover my ears to avoid the sound of cars honking and pelting rain.
“The destination is family. Love. A place in the world to call your own.”
I flicked a small twig from the side of my sneakers. “You have lots of places.”
“Yes, but only one of them is my home. And that’s where you and your mother are.”
I studied him with a crunch of my forehead. “What did we ever do to make you so happy?”
“You exist, silly. That’s enough.”
I sprawled in my seat, tap-tap-tapping my knee, bored to the max. “If we make you so happy, why do you always buy stuff to feel good?”
“Art is not stuff.” He put his hand over mine to stop me from tapping my knee. “It’s a person’s soul poured into material. Souls are priceless, Zach. Try to protect yours any way you can.”
I inched closer to him, peering at the velvet satchel between us. “Can I look at this one?”
“Not until your birthday.”
“It’s mine?”
“Not to carry around. It’s dangerous.”
“Even better.” I rubbed my hands together, turning my attention to the hand-carved canton box cradled between his palms. “How about this one?”
We’d just picked up the spoils of Dad’s bidding war at an antique auction.
Well, Dad did.
I sat in the car, solving a Rubik’s cube without bothering to actually look at it as he trudged through the ID verification process.
Art had never interested me.
Dad spent the past twelve years drilling his wisdom into me, hoping some of his obsession would penetrate my skull.
No such luck.
I could debate the merits of gongbi versus ink and wash painting, but I couldn’t force myself to actually give a crap about a bunch of lines on paper.
Sometimes I secretly wished I had a dad like Romeo’s. He let him handle guns and hand grenades. Rom even knew how to operate a tank.
Now that was a flex.
Dad slid the heavy lid off and slanted the box my way. “Your mother’s anniversary present.”
Clasped between satin walls sat a round jade pendant chiseled into the shape of a lion. A red cord looped around the curved edge, leading to stacked beads, an oversized pan chang knot, and double tassels.
A cool two million dollars, and for what?
Mom wasn’t even gonna wear this thing.
Adults sometimes made the dumbest decisions. Dad called them impulses and said they were human. Maybe I wasn’t much of a human because nothing made me too excited. I always thought things through and craved nothing.
Not even sweets.
I slumped back into my seat. “It looks like the slab of cheese mold growing in the Tupperware in Oliver’s locker.”
My other best friend had the hygiene of a wild boar. Though that wouldn’t really be fair to the boar, because the latter didn’t have the option to shower daily.
“Shǎ háizi.” Silly kid. Dad flicked the back of my head, chuckling. “One day, you’ll learn to appreciate beautiful things.”
The rain intensified, knocking on the windows like it was begging to enter. Red and yellow lights gleamed through the distorted glass.
The honking grew louder.
Almost there.
“Are you sure Mom will like it?” I rubbed my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. “It looks like the one Celeste Ayi got her years ago.”
Pretty sure my aunt bought it at an airport souvenir shop on her way out of Shanghai.
“She’ll love it.” Dad’s finger hovered over the pendant, moving along the edges without actually touching it. “It’s a shame I had to fly to Xi’an in January. By the time I heard they added the other pendant to the D.C. auction, someone had already bought it.”
“There’s another?” I drew an octopus on the glass this time, only half paying attention as a stormy Potomac crawled by. Another few miles and we’d turn onto Dark Prince Road. “Doesn’t that lower the value?”
“Sometimes. But in this case, the pendants were crafted as a his-and-hers set. They belonged to star-crossed lovers during the Song Dynasty.”
I perked up.
Finally, we got to the good part.
“What happened to them? Were they beheaded?”
“Zach.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I snapped, then sliced my finger across my throat. “They did death by a thousand cuts back then. Their arms must have been ripped.”
Dad massaged his temples, staring at me with a slight smile. “Are you done?”
“No. When they cut people’s noses off without anesthetics, do you think they died instantly or bled out?”
The traffic jam loosened, and the car gained speed.
Finally.
“Zachary Sun, it’s a wonder that you’re my chil—”
A blaring horn sounded, drowning his voice. The rain. The entire world.
Dad cut off, eyes wide.
The car swerved violently to the side, as if trying to escape a collision. Dad tossed the box away and launched himself at me, wrapping his arms around my torso, clutching me painfully.
He pinned me flat against my seat. A blinding flash of headlights blazed across his face.
The Bentley tipped over on its side, flipping onto its roof. We landed upside down.
He was still on top of me.
Still shielding me.
It happened fast.
Loud, piercing ringing.
Then, pain.
Complete, utter pain.
Everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I was both numb and in agony.
I blinked fast as if it could help me see or even hear.
“You’re okay, Zachary. You’re fine.” His lips shaped the words, his face less than an inch from mine.
His whole body shook.
His eyes swung down between us, and he closed them, taking a ragged breath. “Wo cao.”
My eyes flared.
He cursed.
Dad never cursed.
Something sticky and dark dropped onto my right leg, coming from Dad. I shook it off.
Blood.
It was blood.
Dad’s blood.
And then I saw it.
A landscape rake pierced through his gut. Spearing him into the door.
The jagged edge poked my stomach, grazing it. I sucked my belly in, struggling to breathe at the same time.
I blinked fast, hoping this nightmare would wash away. Dad came into focus, his entire face bloodied, shards of glass sticking to his skin like hedgehog spikes.
Blood everywhere. Sliding down his temple from the forehead scar to his chin. His blood—warm, metallic, stinky, sticky—soaked into my clothes, my skin, my hair.
I wanted him off.
I wanted to scream.
His lips moved again, but this time, I couldn’t make anything out past the ringing in my ears.
I can’t hear you, I mouthed. Say it again.
I tried to move, to touch his forehead, stop the bleeding, but he was too heavy, and I had to keep sucking my stomach in to make sure the rake didn’t cut me open.
The red pouch.
I reached for it, stretching my hand as far as it would go. The rake sliced a tiny hole into my skin, but I managed to grab the satchel, dumping it upside down.
A knife.
I wrapped my hand around its handle and tried to cut off my seatbelt. It tore at the side, making no difference.
I still couldn’t move.
Henry, I tried to scream our driver’s name.
No response.
I glanced over my right shoulder, finding Henry’s forehead pressed against a deflated air bag, creating a constant piercing ring with the horn.
I knew he was dead, even without seeing any blood. He looked like a lifeless puppet, his pupils black and flat.
Dad’s lips moved again. His eyes begged me to listen. I wanted to, I really did, but all I could hear was the horn.
A tear fell from dad’s cheek to mine.
A hiss slipped out of my throat, like the drop burned me where it landed.
Dad never cried.
His lips moved slower, his body still covering mine. Protecting me from whatever was happening or had already happened.
A cage of bent steel boxed us in. I couldn’t move out from under him if I tried.
I managed to form a fist, clutching on to his shirt before he collapsed on me. My hands tremored with his weight, the other still wrapped around the knife handle.
Dad’s eyes remained open, but I knew he wasn’t alive anymore. His soul had already drifted away. And I finally understood what he meant when he’d said souls were priceless.
My senses returned one by one, trickling like rain.
First, my hearing.
“Is there anyone else in there?”
“A child.”
“Alive?”
“Damn… I doubt it. That truck went straight into them at full speed. They stood no chance.”
Then, my skin receptors.
Dad was cold.
So cold.
Too cold.
I knew what it meant.
A piece of his flesh melted from his face, dropping onto my chest. If it was hot, I couldn’t feel it.
I trembled all over, screwing my eyes shut, fighting down the bile rising up my throat, my stomach still clenched tight.
Get off me.
I don’t want to feel your death.
I don’t want to feel, period.
Finally, my ability to talk.
“Alive,” I croaked out, hearing people groaning, grunting, shouting, trying to flip the car upright. “I’m alive.”
But I didn’t feel like I was.
“You hang in there, buddy,” a voice called out. “We’re coming to get you. It’s just gonna take some time, okay?”
“Okay.”
Not okay.
Nothing was okay.
I squeezed my mouth shut, listening to them talk.
“Wait. Isn’t this…?”
“Yeah. Bo Sun. The Bo Sun.” Silence. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Is he…?”
“They’re going to have to cut him off before they can get to the kid. He’s speared onto the rake through the melted metal.”
“Goddammit. Poor kid.”
