The Last Cry

It felt as if five hands were pressing gently onto his stomach, beating it sporadically, and clawing deep into his belly. He bent down his upper body and folded his arms across his stomach to ease the pain. Chewing thick medium-rare steak as large as his hand, letting melted cheese in warm lasagna soak in. Not until his dad returned home from work. The whole family had to wait for Dad to be back, his mother said, before eating dinner together.

The door opened. Mom greeted Dad with a kiss. Alex sat up straight. Their maid brought out his favorites, medium-rare steak and cheese-filled lasagna, as well as chicken wings coated with a thin layer of honey and soy-steamed fish with scattered bits of sliced green onions on top. The whole family, including him, his younger sister Phoebe, his mom and dad, sat at the small rectangular dining table in the living room. He sat as close to the edge as possible at the left side of the table. His sister sat next to him on his right side, while his father sat directly across from him, and his mother sat diagonally across from him on the right. He kept his head low most of the time, with his eyes fixed on his small bowl of rice.

His father looked at him eyes wide open, “Alex, have you finished your homework?”

Alex tilted his head down, “Not yet.”

“Why are you so much lazier than your sister? She is only ten years old but you’re already seventeen.” He pointed at Alex with his finger, “You’d better get to work right after dinner.”

His body shivered. The lasagna tasted bland. It was tough living in Hong Kong. His dad wanted him to finish homework as soon as possible, a sign of diligence, proof he has been working hard without distraction.

Alex walked to his room, closed the door, took out all of the homework from his backpack. The paper for English had twelve reading comprehension questions. He had to finish it quickly. A surveillance camera, attached to the ceiling of his room in the corner near his desk and bed, watched. It was above the left side of his desk and could clearly capture everything that was placed on his desk. The body of the camera was white and the lens was dome-shaped. His parents’ phone screens connected up, played out his decisions, which question he answered, when he went to sleep.

They were watching. He skimmed through the English passages and searched online for the definition of words that he did not know. It was a quarter past ten o’clock at night. His parents required him to sleep before midnight to be healthy and to have ample energy the next day. He carried on flipping back and forth, between the passages and reading comprehension questions, writing sentences to answer the questions. His left hand pressed down on his worksheet to keep it still on the desk as he was writing. His right hand gripped his pencil and moved across the worksheet as if he were drawing an electrocardiogram of a fast heart rate. He tapped his left foot on the ground steadily. His eyes were fixed on the paper.

Calculus next, pressing buttons on his calculator fast with his left index finger, jotting down numbers with his right hand. After calculus, Chinese, physics, and then economics. He checked the time. It was half past eleven. He faced the surveillance camera. An inner smile surfaced. He set his alarm again for six thirty in the morning. Bed, just in time.

He woke up to the steady loud ringing of his alarm. All the piles of paper he would receive during class, including notes prepared by teachers and homework he would have to do after school, filled him up.

Mom knocked on his door loudly, “Wake up! Don’t be late!”

It was even harder for him to get out of bed. He’d promised her to be punctual. He sat up straight, shoved his feet into his fluffy slippers.

His English teacher was talking. His schedule for the day filtered the description of Macbeth killing King Duncan, Banquo, Macduff’s wife and son, driven by ambition to secure his kingship. After school, he’d have to rush back home to learn Chinese from a private tutorial, take his English tutorial, go to his swimming lesson, take a shower, do homework, eat dinner, do more homework, and then sleep, on time.

“Alex, what makes Macbeth a tragic hero?” Miss Ma asked, looking straight into his eyes.

“Sorry, can you please repeat your question?” he asked.

“You clearly weren’t paying attention. What makes Macbeth a tragic hero?”

“… his life was tragic?”

Miss Ma carried on with the lesson. She handed out a packet of worksheets to complete for homework. The worksheets in Alex’s hands started to become a little soggy, soaked in the sweat from his hands. His parents were already watching. By the end of the afternoon, he received the homework for all his other subjects.

He was still holding these worksheets in one hand. An umbrella pulled in his other. It was raining hard. He started looking at some equations for calculus class. After solving one math problem, he took out his textbook for his Chinese private tutorial. He had not finished reading the short stories “Zhang Daoling Tests Zhao Sheng Seven Times” and “For One Penny, a Small Grudge Ends in Stark Tragedies.” Water droplets splashed on his arms and occasionally on his face.

His Chinese tutor was sitting at the dining table in his living room, textbooks and handouts in front. The umbrella fit near the front door. Alex dropped his backpack onto a chair. Dropped himself into the chair. His head longed to drop onto the table. Close his eyes, take a nap. One and a half hours of this tutorial to brush up on his Chinese, his most detestable subject, started with reviewing a long vocabulary list.

It was time for his English tutor to come. He went for a toilet break first. As he sat on the cold toilet seat, he struggled to keep his eyes open. He forced himself to stand up and washed his face.

His English tutor was there with textbooks and handouts ready for him. One and a half hours. He had to rest his chin on his hands to keep his head up. Once in a while, he placed his fingers on the top of his eyelids to keep his eyes open. He yawned once every fifteen minutes. The image of his bed constantly appeared. The bed in his room, with a light brown wood frame, was placed perpendicular to his desk along the inner corner of his tiny room. The mattress on top was thick. His body could sink into it. His pillow was long and full of heavy cushion. Halfway through, he asked his tutor for a break and his tutor agreed to give him a short one.

He found his mom in her room.

“Mom, I’m tired. Can I please end English tutorial early today?”

“You mean end right now?”

“Yes, I really need to take some rest.”

“You can’t just tell the tutor to leave right now. Go back to the living room.”

“But I can’t even learn anything! Can I please at least have a longer break? Five more minutes?”

“No. Learn to stay strong and not to waste your time. Go back now.”

“Alright, Mom.”

Back in the living room, his tutor was talking. Once she left, he ran and flopped himself into bed.

He woke up to the sound of his mother knocking on his bedroom door. She came in and tapped his shoulder.

Leaning towards his ear she said, “It’s time to wake up and get ready for swimming lesson!”

“Can I please skip the lesson today?”

“Of course not. I paid for you already. Don’t waste my money.”

He crawled out of bed. He changed into his swimsuit, put his towel and goggles into his drawstring bag, then wore his flip-flops.

In the pool, he recalled primary school. A pool with his family. Laughing. Splashing each other with water. Not much time together now. What had they chatted about, besides English reading comprehension questions or calculus equations?

He still had homework once he returned home. Mario Kart was next to his shoes. He got it out, and his Nintendo Switch, and sat on the sofa in the living room. His sister sat next to him doing her homework. He looked at her. Seven years ago, playing hide-and-seek, running on grass in the park, building sand castles on the beach, playing board games.

Holding his Nintendo Switch in front of her, he asked, “Wanna play together?”

“Can’t. I have to keep working on homework,” she answered.

He looked at the clock. There were only two more hours left until dinner time. He went to his room before Dad came back home. He had been working hard.

At the dinner table, Dad asked how his homework was going. He had already finished all of his homework, he said.

Phoebe said, “He played video games before doing homework.”

“You should always work before playing,” Dad said.

Alex replied, “I worked hard.”

“Not enough,” Mom commented.

He walked to his room and closed the door. He set his alarm again for six thirty in the morning. He lied down on bed, turned his body to the left. Tears slid down from his eyes to the pillow. Snot flowed out, making the pillow wet.

The next day at school, his eyelids were swollen. It felt as if ten needles were stuck in the back of his head, two in each of his temples, and eight in his stomach. His eyebrows were scrunched. His neck was stiff. His shoulders were hard. His hands were cold. His right foot kept shaking. His heart beat harder and faster. His breathing became heavier.

During lunchtime, he sat with his small group of friends.

“How are you doing?” asked Wilson.

“Surviving,” Alex replied.

“Good enough,” Tony remarked.

“How can we keep living like this?” Alex sighed.

“Cried last night? Your eyes… ” Tony asked.

“My parents again. Saying I don’t work hard enough,” Alex explained.

“Mine too,” said Tony.

“My parents scolded me for getting a B plus on my Chinese test,” Wilson said.

“Mine were angry at the A minus I got for my English essay,” Tony said.

“All we can do is keep working harder,” Wilson stated.

“This isn’t right,” said Alex.

After school, Alex turned off his phone. His parents and tutors would not be able to find him. He would not attend his Chinese tutorial, English tutorial, or swimming lesson. He asked Tony and Wilson to play basketball with him, his favorite sport. They ran around the basketball court at school. Dribbling the ball, sweating, laughing. As soon as Alex was near the hoop, he gripped the ball tightly with both of his hands, lifted up his head, brought the ball near his eye, looked at the square drawn on the backboard, then shot the ball towards the goal. As the ball entered the hoop, he raised his fist in the air and shouted for his victory.

Dinner time. He went home. Rang the doorbell. Mom came.

“Where have you been?!”

“Played basketball… with friends.”

“Your teachers called me. Why weren’t you at your lessons?”

“I’m too tired to learn anything after school.”

“You cannot skip lessons. You are not allowed to play basketball with those friends ever again.”

Dad and Phoebe were at the dining table.

“Come sit down first,” Dad said.

Mom and Alex walked over and sat down.

Dad questioned, “Have you done any homework yet?”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Alex asked.

“Like what?” Dad replied.

“Can we go hiking this weekend?” Alex asked.

Mom replied, “You have to study for your test coming up next week.”

“Can we play board games together after my test?” Alex asked.

“How did you do on your calculus test?” Mom asked.

“I got 93%,” Alex announced.

Mom commented, “Only? Phoebe got 98% on her recent math test.”

“I tried my best,” Alex said.

“Your results don’t show it,” Mom responded.

“Can you please lower your standards?” Alex asked.

Mom looked at the plate of grapes next to her left arm. She picked up the plate and placed it in front of Alex. The grapes were green and large without seeds. His favorite kind.

“Eat them,” Mom said.

Alex plucked one out and moved it towards his mouth.

“Stop. Put it down,” said Mom.

He put it onto the plate.

“Throw all the grapes into the rubbish bin,” she directed.

He looked at the grapes. He stood up. He lifted up the plate with both hands. He brought it to the kitchen. He placed the plate near the rubbish bin to let the grapes slide in. He walked back to the dining table.

Mom stated, “Just like the grapes, my efforts are wasted. I pay for all your tuition fees and give you so much good food to eat. The result is rubbish.”

He looked at the floor. He walked to his room and closed the door. He sat on his bed. His eyes were wet. Water slid down both sides of his cheeks, dripping onto his T-shirt and lap. Snot flowed from his nose, dripping down to his mouth and chin. He took the box of tissue from his desk and put it on his lap. He placed a piece of tissue under his eyes. His tears soaked in. He used another piece of tissue to wipe the snot beneath his nose. Tears and snot continued to drip down. They dripped onto the tissue box. He looked at his desk. There were his textbooks and worksheets. There was an assignment that was due tomorrow. He hadn’t finished it yet. He looked at his alarm clock. He looked at the surveillance camera. He put his tissue box on his bed and stood up. He pulled out the drawer beneath his desk and got out a roll of black duct tape. He stepped onto his chair. Standing on his toes, he tried to reach the surveillance camera with his hand. He wasn’t tall enough. He lifted his leg and stepped onto his desk. He reached for the surveillance camera and was able to touch it. He bent down to get the roll of duct tape. He pulled out a long strand of tape. He reached for the surveillance camera and stuck the tape onto the edge of the dome-shaped lens, then wrapped the tape all around the lens until it was completely covered.

He walked to his bedroom door and put his ear against it. There was no sound. He slowly opened his door to see through a tiny gap. There was no light outside. He opened the door and walked to his parents’ room. He put his ear against their door. It was silent. He walked to his sister’s room. There was no noise inside. They were all asleep.

He walked to the living room. He made as little noise as possible, walking slowly to the wooden chest of drawers that was behind the dining table, thinking about what happened during dinner. The grapes in the rubbish bin. He carefully pulled out the top drawer. He placed his head near the drawer to look closely at the boxes and bottles of different kinds of medicine. He took out a brown bottle. He brought it close to his eyes and squinted. It was labeled “PROZAC,” an antidepressant. He held the bottle in his left hand and used his right hand to push the drawer back in. He walked a bit to the left to the glass cabinet adjacent to the wooden chest of drawers. There were bottles of alcohol stored inside. The first time he ever tried alcohol was when he was at a friend’s birthday party a few years ago. He hadn’t had so much fun ever since that day. He opened the glass door and took out the tallest bottle of alcohol. Sweat flowed down from his forehead, to his neck, to his hips, to his legs. He closed the door and looked around the living room. No one was there. With the bottle of antidepressants in his left hand and the bottle of alcohol in his right hand, he walked back to his room.

He placed them on his desk, then sat on his bed. He opened the drawer beneath his desk and got out a stationery cutter knife. He held the bottle of alcohol with his left hand and used his right hand to cut and lift the cap open with the cutter knife. He picked up the bottle of antidepressants and twisted the lid open. He poured two pills onto his left hand. Placed them on his tongue. With his right hand, he held the bottle of alcohol and drank a big sip. The pills and alcohol entered his stomach, as if someone threw a basketball straight at his belly. He placed four pills onto his tongue and drank half the bottle of alcohol. It felt as if one thick textbook rested on his head. His heart beat harder and harder, faster and faster. He swallowed four more pills. He drank more alcohol. His head swayed from side to side. His room tilted towards the left. Everything began to look like blurred blobs of dim color. With one eye slightly open, hands shaking, he reached for the pills. His hands landed on his alarm clock. He moved his hand to the left, knocking over the bottle of pills. He grabbed a bunch of pills from the desk and put them in his mouth. With two unsteady hands, he slowly lifted up the bottle of alcohol and poured the rest of it down his throat. In his stomach, it felt as if twenty small basketballs were being tossed around. Liquid moved up from his stomach to his throat. Red liquid came out of his mouth, a mixture of alcohol and blood. Sweat dripped down from his forehead, into his eyes, into his mouth, down his neck, onto his chest, to his waist, to his hip. His hands and legs were shaking. It felt as if three thick textbooks were placed on top of his head. His hair was all wet as if he had gone swimming. His head dropped down onto his pillow. The saliva in his throat and mouth became dry. His heart began to beat slower and slower, one beat per two seconds, one beat per five seconds, one beat per eight seconds, one beat per ten seconds. He gasped for air. Mouth wide open. A bright flash of light crossed his vision. He saw himself on the beach, seven years ago, running across the sand with Mom, Dad, Phoebe, floating on the waves in the ocean. His whole body felt cold. He could not open his eyes. As if there was a thick blindfold wrapped around his face, stuck with permanent glue. Complete darkness. Heartbeat faded. He could not breathe.

“Wake up! Time for school!” yelled his mom.

She opened his door.

“Get up!”

No response. She walked to his bed. Alex’s eyes were closed. His body was still. Mouth open. There was a brown stain of blood on his pillow. A large stain of urine and feces on his bed sheet. The room smelled like a public toilet that hadn’t been cleaned in five years.

She placed her hand on his forehead. Cold. The skin on his face was gray and dry. His lips were black. She touched his hand. Cold. She placed her hand on his chest. No heartbeat.

“Alex!” she screamed.

She grabbed onto both of his shoulders and shook his body. No response. She placed her hands on his chest and pressed down on it six times as hard as she could. No response.

She ran to the living room to grab the phone on the dining table. She quickly dialed her husband’s number.

“Come home now! Alex… he… ”

“What?”

“Come right now.”

Ten minutes later, he arrived.

She held his hand and walked him to Alex’s room. They walked to the bed. His eyes widened. He covered his mouth with both hands. Knelt down on his knees. Placed his hands on Alex’s chest. Put his hands around Alex’s stiff neck. Touched Alex’s blue hands.

He slowly stood up. He held his wife’s hand. They looked at each other with tears in their eyes.