Burn

“Do you still believe magic?” my daughter asked.

“Yes, I do,” I replied. “This world is full of wonders.”

I pulled the blanket up to her chin. After she drifted into sleep, I quietly left her room.

This was our nightly ritual--- a story each night.

I fumbled through a large box where I kept things that mattered most to me – old photos, seashells, and dairy books. I picked up one of the dairies and flipped through its pages. The ink had faded, but my feelings hadn’t.

The date was 18 April 2008. Today was the final test day for graduating from this school. Ms. Joy was an intimidating woman, with whom no one dared contradict. I didn’t know where I got the courage to stand up for the monkeys, but I did. I thought I was doomed, but finally magic appeared. …

******

Writhing on the classroom desk, the dog whimpered softly, its body trembling with pain. One of its front legs was on the floor, with blood trickling down the table leg, forming a pool beneath the desk. I held my breath, pretending not to be paralyzed by the blood. Liu Xiaojun held the fruit knife, the blood trickling down the handle. He was showing off his achievement. He proposed everyone take part in the slaying. When it was my turn, I hesitated. Liu Xiaojun called me a coward. If I didn’t do anything to the stray dog, then I would be bullied forever, and finally I would be tortured to death like this dog. I stepped forward, when he handed me the small knife, a shiver ran through me – sharp and sudden, like touching a live wire.

“Meilin, hurry! You can help it,” Liu Xiaojun urged, “It won’t feel pain. No more suffering!”

I wished I had magic. Like Houdini, the great magician – able to vanish from one place and reappear in another. I longed for that kind of escape. But reality didn’t bend to illusions. There was no magic.

I heard my stomach growling. If I didn’t stab the dog, there would be no dinner for me. I grabbed the knife, trembling. As my knife tip touched the dog’s belly, a jolt surged through me. In that instant, reality shifted. I was the dog – trembling, howling, and twisting.

The boys and girls grew impatient.

“Meilin, just do what we learned in biology class,” one of them said.

“Pretend it’s a watermelon. You stab into it. Then it’ll be relieved.”

I still hesitated, frozen. Then Liu Xiaojun pushed my arm forward. The knife plunged into the dog’s belly. The blood, like the fountain water, spewed. The dog let out a sharp, agonizing squeal and then, silence.

Deadly silence.

Its body stiffened, limbs locked in place. It lay here like frozen meat -- like chicken or pork pulled straight from the freezer.

No breath. No movement. Just a stone statue on the table.

“Meilin, clean your blood off your eyelids,” Liu Xiaojun said, handing me a piece of tissue. I didn’t feel blood. I didn’t feel anything. I still wiped my face anyway. I felt like my mind hovering above me, watching this from the ceiling.

The dog lay still. Soon, a janitor would come to clean the remains. The carcass would be taken away, and transported to some place out of our school.

It was raining outside. When we all strode out of the room, one janitor, who wore black rubber boots and dark blue waterproof coat, walked through. We exchanged a glance. I couldn’t read his thoughts, but something in his gaze lingered. A silent message passed between us: “It’s no big idea. You’ll get used to it.”

Between the teaching building and the dormitory, there was an empty yard. A small van stood there, silent and waiting.

I walked slowly on purpose. I turned around to see how the janitor did his job. He held a yellow plastic bag – I knew what was inside. He opened the van’s back door and lifted the bag with ease. He had done this before. Too many times, maybe.

When the dinner time came, we lined up in the canteen. There were two windows -- one for vegetable and meat, the other for rice. Everyone clutched their plates, lining. As I stepped closer to the serving window, the sight hit me. Livers. Hearts. Intestines. Chickens’ heads. The smell of food mixed with the imaginary blood of the dog. As the odor punched into my nostrils, I bent forward and spewed.

I squatted down and spewed everything out. But there was nothing -- just saliva. I hadn’t eaten in two days. They only allowed me drink thin rice soup. Now, I couldn’t stop the tears and spit. A cleaning lady darted towards me and mopped the floor with grumble. I was a trouble, in everyone’s eyes. My classmates stepped back, their eyes sharp with annoyance and disgust. I had ruined their dinner. They didn’t say it, but I could feel it – the grudge, the blame. I sat alone at one table, while they all gathered at the farthest corner of the canteen, as if my presence might infect them. Someone handed me a bowl of vegetable soup and a white bun.

On the wall, bold red characters screamed:

WASTING FOOD IS A CRIME.

I forced myself to chew the bun. It was dry and I almost choked. Then a hand patted on my shoulder. I turned, mouth still full. It was Ms. Joy. She sat down beside me and smirked at me.

“Congratulations! Meilin. You passed the test,” Ms. Joy said.

The white bun was still in my mouth, thick and dry, making it hard to speak. I swallowed hard, and tried to respond quickly, “Oh… thank you.” I wanted to continue to ask more, but I stopped.

The rule for surviving in Sunrise Boarding School was simple:

Keep quiet. Listen. Obey.

Questions were dangerous. Opinions, even more so.

Ms. Joy rose to her feet and strode to the center of the dining hall.

“Attention! Everyone. Tomorrow we are going to have a final test before graduation,” her pitch was high, “It is final, which means that after it you will become a totally new person.”

She stood there like a statue -- her back straight, chin lifted. Sometimes, her arms waved, sometimes crossed over her chest. She paced back and forth in the center. The heels of her leather boots stuck the floor with a crisp ding-ding.

“Some of you may have heard about the final test,” she said, her voice crisp, “but I promise you -- this one will blow your mind.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “This one will stay with you. For life.”

When my eyes met Ms. Joy’s, I saw something, very terrifying things.

That night, I lost sleep. The other girls were quiet sleeping. Moonlight poured through the window, casting tree shadows on the wall. It was not scary. Not the night. Not the shadow. Nothing was as terrifying as Ms. Joy’s smile.

I stared at the shadows and gradually fell into a reverie.

It was a factory house. I opened the door. Inside were many deserted machines. The green paint on the machines already peeled off. Three large windows were set high on the wall, their tops brushing the ceiling. This factory house was built during the era when Soviet Union came to support our development. I once read in a book about why they built windows so high in factories. It wasn’t just for light. It was to keep the workers focused. High windows meant no distractions. No glimpses of trees, sky or freedom. Just walls, machines, and labor. The Russians had long left, but the buildings remained – hulking, hollow, deserted.

That word echoed in my mind: Deserted!

And then another followed – Death!

The thought came like a jolt!

A sacrifice.

Here.

Tomorrow.

Ms. Joy.

I woke from my nightmare with a loud scream.

The other girls became cross.

“What are you shouting at?” Xiaohua snapped.

“Why you always disturb our sleep? You know we have test tomorrow.” Lili mumbled.

“There is a way to stop nightmare,” Hongxing said flatly, “just listen to music.”

Then they drifted back to sleep. I lay there, heart pounding fast. I kept my eyes open during the whole night.

In the morning, the bells in the dormitory hall screeched, dragging everyone out of their beds. The public bathroom filled with noise: water gurgling, feet pitter-pattering, and washbowls clinking. After washing, we darted to the empty yard. We stood there, arranged like a giant square biscuit – ten across, ten deep.

Ms. Joy lectured us about pride, confidence, values – all the usual words. Then we were herded onto three buses, not toward the town center, but the opposite direction. The buses drove north, past farmlands, rivers and tunnels, and finally arrived at our destination. At the foot of a mountain stood a grey, one-story concrete building. Alone. Silent. As the metal gates were opened, a wave of moldy air hit my lungs.

It was the factory house appeared in my nightmare.

Inside, old machines lay scattered across the floor. Brass plates still clung to their rusted side: Grain Thresher. But the farmland was long gone. Threshers were abandoned. In the center stretched a long metal table -- from one end to the other. We were told to stand behind it. Then a man dragged five large sacks, tied shut. He tossed them in front of the counter. Twitching and bulging, something inside moved. He untied the sacks. Monkeys crawled out. They were not healthy ones. Some lay on the floor, wiggling weakly. Some hobbled, one leg dragging behind. Others just sat, eyes dull, barely breathing.

I recognized him. The man from yesterday. The one who transported the dog’s body.

“All these monkeys are leftovers from labs,” she said, her voice flat. “Most of them are infected with viruses. Some have cancer. Others are crippled or blind,” she paused, then added, “put simply -- they’re all defective.”

Her eyes scanned from the right to left. She spoke again, “Today, our task is to help them. To free them. We will end their lives, so they won’t suffer anymore.”

The stray dog’s agonizing face still hovered in my mind. Its final squeal echoed in my ears. Now, we were about to carry out another killing.

Every ten students formed a group. Each of us stood behind the long metal counter, a large bowl placed in front of us like an offering plate. Xiaohua, one of my roommates, was in the first group. They just waited as if bracing for something they couldn’t name.

Everyone was assigned a monkey. Then the killing began. First, each student slitted the throat of monkeys. The monkeys thrashed violently. Students gripped their necks with one hand, their front legs with the other. But the hind legs kicked with desperate strength, scratching, resisting. Their screams -- miserable, unbearable -- pierced through the ceiling. Blood sprayed across the counter. One by one, the bodies collapsed. Cleaners moved in quickly, collecting the carcasses into a large sack. The blood was poured into a drain, disappearing.

The air was thick with the smell of blood and fear. Xiaohua’s face was pale. But none of them cried. I fought the urge to vomit, but Lili didn’t. She threw up. She was allowed to rest for a while.

One group finished their “operation”, then another stepped forward. Ms. Joy also made comments, “girls and boys, I’m proud of you. You’ve become braver and more useful.”

Then it was my turn. Group nine.

I was assigned a small monkey. Her body was covered in welts – thin, red lines like whip marks. She didn’t try to run. She sat on the counter, gazing at me. Her eyes sparkled. I reminisced the first time I went to a zoo where I also saw a monkey. She had reached for me through the bars. Just like this one.

I can’t hurt them, I thought. But what happens if I don’t do anything? When I was in my reverie, she stretched her hand towards me and placed it on mine. I froze. Her fingers were warm. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the factory anymore. I was somewhere else.

The movie played on, but I couldn’t look away.

A woman crouched behind a bush, laying sausages on the grass. She sprinkled a pale-yellow powder over them. Later, a tabby cat lay beside the bait, foam spilling from her mouth, flies circling above.

Then a man appeared, cursing the birds that had stained his car with droppings. That evening, he scattered corn and rice across the yard. Days passed, birds fell from the sky like leaves in winter – lifeless, scattered, forgotten.

A little girl stood in the yard, tears streaming her cheeks. She cradled one of the birds in her palms, trembling. She looked familiar. A neighbor, maybe.

Then a woman spoke into a phone. “Is this the Sunrise Boarding School?” she asked.

It was my mother.

One classmate nudged me, dragging me back to reality. The small monkey withdrew her hand and lowered her head. I really can’t kill her! I told myself.

“Ms. Joy, I can’t do this! It’s far too wrong. We are not here to become butchers.” I yelled out.

Then a dead silence hit. No one dared to say anything. I tried to look at Ms. Joy and her reaction. I knew I was doomed. Freezing there for a few seconds, she strode towards me and looked into my eyes.

“Wrong? Right?” she said, her voice cold.

“You think you can tell the difference.

You call us butchers.

But no -- only those with power decide what’s right and wrong.

Rulers are butchers.

Butchers are rulers.

We’re here to become strong enough to survive.

Strong enough to protect ourselves.

And butchering is just one form of self-protection.”

She handed me the knife. “Do it! You’ll become used to it. You’ll be a tough woman!”

“Do it! Do it!” Their voice blurred into a chant. The knife trembled in my hand. The monkey stared at me – no longer pleading, but angry. She was not angry at me, but at the world.

Then the dream took me.

I saw the little girl again.

Her flat nose, dark skin, freckles scattered like stars across her cheeks.

She stood in front of the class, introduced by the teacher who didn’t care.

Her name was mocked.

Her dialect was ridiculed.

During recess, a boy yanked her hair.

She cried.

No one helped.

Days passed.

Nothing changed.

Until one day, she brought a knife to school and stabbed a boy in the arm. After that, everyone avoided her. No one spoke to her.

She became Ms. Joy.

All of a sudden, a fire broke in the factory house. No one knew how it started. But the flames spread quickly. We evacuated, but only Ms. Joy didn’t make it. A slab of concrete had fallen on her. They tried to help her, but no one could reach her. Ultimately, she was gone.

The house was swallowed by fire, piece by piece.

*****

Luminair was known for its fresh air -- a top destination for tourists.

On Friday morning, I had just settled into my office at the forest park’s tourism center when a tourist burst through the door.

“I was scratched by a monkey,” he said, breathless.

In my ten years of working here, I’d never seen a monkey.

Never heard of one. Not even a rumor.

He noticed my reaction and quickly held out his left hand. Three welted scratches ran across the back. I grabbed the medicine kit from the shelf and dabbed the iodophor onto the wound. Then he was sent to the city clinic for a rabies vaccination.

That afternoon, an alert lit up my screen.

“The monkeys in the Lab of Wildlife of Luminair (LWL) had escaped. Please keep your doors and windows closed! Don’t panic! The good news is that all these female monkeys don’t carry pathogens because they haven’t been used for testing.”

I just put my phone down when a group of people burst into my office. One man carried a big live trap. Another held a kit. A third gripped a net. The last another carried a bag of nuts.

“Hi, we’re from LWL – to catch a troop of escaped monkeys. Don’t panic! We’ll get them! But we need your help.”

I nodded and turned to the broadcast system. All tourists returned.

After a whole day’s search, the team hadn’t found any trace of the monkeys. They were frustrated. Before leaving, one of men handed me his card: Dr. Song Wu, Senior Researcher.

When I got home, I started cooking dinner for my daughter.

Clatter!

Something knocked over the empty glass bottles on the window sill. Maybe it was wind. Maybe pigeons. I kept chopping carrots.

I love making stew – a big pot filled with carrots, stem lettuce, onions, ginger, garlic, and pork. I turned off the gas stove and ladled the stew into a bowl. Then I stepped outside to check if my daughter’s school bus had arrived.

A monkey stood at my doorstep.

I froze.

The monkey didn’t move forward, but just gazed at me.

All of a sudden, I was back at Sunrise Boarding School.

I was back in the final test.

It was her!

The young monkey who had saved me.

Now she looked old. I was old too.

I stepped closer.

She didn’t flee. Instead, she stretched one of her hands towards me.

Yes, it was her! My tears welled up.