Hey I was still alive! (Through my memories)
The shrill alarm tore through the stale air of my apartment, dragging me out of another dreamless sleep. I yawned, rubbing my eyes as I stared up at the dusty gray ceiling, faint cobwebs clinging to the corners. For a second, I considered ignoring the alarm, letting the world move on without me. But the screeching wouldn’t stop, and eventually, I groaned and reached over to slap the clock silent.
I sat up, my body protesting the movement, and glanced at the window. The sky was still dark, the streets below barely illuminated by flickering streetlights. A handful of people were already shuffing along the cracked sidewalks, bundled in layers, their faces hollowed by exhaustion. Off to work. Off to waste another day in soulless offices and backbreaking labor until their bodies gave out.
I yawned again and forced myself out of bed, stretching as my joints popped. Another day. Another slow march toward the inevitable.
The air in my apartment was thick with dust and the lingering scent of cheap instant coffee from last night. My tiny living space was cluttered but familiar—stacks of unread books, clothes I hadn’t bothered to put away, an old space heater humming softly in the corner. I moved on autopilot, throwing on my usual office attire: a wrinkled button-up, dark slacks, and a coat that barely kept out the cold.
By the time I stepped out into the dimly lit stairwell, the silence of the building was interrupted by a familiar sound—soft, tinny music echoing through the cracked concrete walls.
“You’ve got a friend in me…~”
I sighed. My neighbor’s kid was playing his “Toy Story” music box again, the same song looping over and over. In this eerie, decaying apartment, the cheerful tune felt almost surreal, like something out of a horror movie. Still, I had to admit, it made the silence a little less suffocating.
As I descended the creaky steps, I caught sight of the kid standing near his door, already dressed in an oversized school uniform. He was tiny, scrawny—probably no older than eight or nine, though malnutrition had a way of making kids look younger than they were.
His name? Mike Queens. I just call him “the kid.”
Annoying, sure, but he was the only innocent thing in this whole godforsaken building. His face was too soft, too hopeful. He didn’t belong in a place like this, surrounded by roaches, peeling wallpaper, and people who had given up on life.
I sighed and crossed my arms. "You’re already awake this early?”
'What the hell are schools even teaching kids these days…?'
He yawned, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m still sleepy, Miss Emma, but my mom said I should wake up early since you wake up early too!"
I scowled. "And she left you here to wait for me? Didn’t I tell her I’d pick you up at seven?"
The kid hesitated before shifting on his feet. "Well… she said you might forget again after all she said you have a memory of an chalkboard”
I clicked my tongue, rolling my eyes. Fair point.
His mom, Alice, had been living here longer than I had. She used to be a sex worker before the government made it illegal, forcing her into an even worse kind of poverty. When she got pregnant, she wanted an abortion, but—surprise, surprise—that was illegal too. Now, she worked odd jobs, barely scraping by, and I ended up walking her kid to school for a whole "dollar." A bargain, really.
I sighed, ruffling the kid’s hair as I stepped past him. "Come on, let’s go before I change my mind and leave you here."
He grinned, skipping after me, his little music box still playing that same damn song.
You’ve got a friend in me…
Next stop Mrs chen.
“Is it true your memory is like a chalkboard Aunt Emma?”
‘Look at this kid already calling me auntie’
"Pfft—whatever, kid. C’mon, let’s go see Miss Chen. She’ll probably get you some breakfast and sneak you a free lunchbox for school. She’s got a soft spot for cute babies like you."
The kid pouted, crossing his arms. "I’m not a baby! I’m eight years old!"
I smirked, ruffling his already messy hair. "Even better. That just means I’ve got plenty of time to keep teasing you."
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I glanced down at the kid—Mike. Still innocent, still untouched by the weight of this ruined city. For now, at least.
I led the way, his small hand fitting entirely in mine, warm and fragile. It was almost unsettling how easily I could cover it with my own. Our destination was Mrs. Chen’s place. She had turned 73 this year, and my plan was simple—get Mike something to eat and have her pack him a lunchbox, because I’d bet anything his mom hadn’t fed him. Not even beans on toast.
I sighed as we trudged through the cold morning air, cutting across two more blocks. The streets were damp, the pavement cracked and uneven, littered with cigarette butts and discarded flyers no one cared to pick up. When we finally reached our spot, I spotted the familiar red-and-gold glow of the Chinese restaurant already open for business. The LED sign above the entrance flickered, casting a soft light on the wet concrete below. 快乐的美食家—The Happy Gourmet.
I pushed open the door, still holding onto Mike’s hand, and was instantly hit with the comforting scent of sizzling chili oil, freshly steamed dumplings, and rich broth. The warmth of the place wrapped around me, a stark contrast to the sharp, unforgiving cold outside. A few early customers were already seated, hunched over bowls of noodles, their faces lost in rising steam.
My personal favorite? The congee. Simple, filling, warm. Something about it always made me feel human again, at least for a little while.
You’re probably wondering why I keep calling him kid instead of his name. Well, his name rhymes with dairy queen and Sounds kinda Queer for my humor.
Mike willingly let go of my hand the moment we stepped inside, already beelining for the counter where Mrs. Chen stood, her wrinkled hands busy stacking bamboo steamers. I followed right after him, because of course—we were her favorites on this worn-down street.
Mrs. Chen was the definition of a typical old Chinese lady—sharp-tongued, shrewd, and tough as nails. But she kept up with the trends in her own way. Today, I noticed fresh blue highlights streaked through her graying hair, standing out against the neat bun she always wore. She was dressed in a qipao, as usual.
Huh. Lilac today.
That meant something. Mrs. Chen only wore lilac for her American- Chinese special occasions. And by special, I meant funerals—specifically, for people she didn’t like. According to her, it was a sign of relief, a final goodbye to someone who had left this world owing her money.
‘Note to self: never piss off an old Chinese lady who can cook like a damn goddess.’
I stepped up to the counter, hands stuffed into my pockets. “Good morning, Mrs. Chen. Looks like you’re already busy with your regulars.”
‘I told her to hire a few workers to help her in her restaurant but she said this was a one women job for her for years now’
She barely spared me a glance before gasping dramatically, her eyes locking onto Mike.
“Oh, 婴儿生菜! You look so thin! Come here, come here—taste a new dish I’m adding to my menu!”
I snorted. Baby Lettuce. That was her nickname for Mike. Meanwhile, she called me 红龟 —Red Turtle. Don’t ask. I stopped questioning it years ago.
Mike, already beaming, practically bounced on his feet as he rushed behind the counter. Mrs. Chen was already grabbing a steaming bowl, muttering something about how kids these days were all skin and bones.
I smirked, shaking my head, Turning to look at my direction to Mrs chen.
"Mrs. Chen, what about me? Don’t I get to taste your new soup too?" I pouted, tilting my head slightly. Call me childish, but sometimes—sometimes—this trick worked on her. If you were lucky.
Mrs. Chen, still bustling around in her tiny kitchen, didn’t even look up. "Hmph. You? You can wait. You don’t look like you’re starving to death like 婴儿生菜 over here."
Mike snickered at that, shooting me a victorious grin. Little traitor.
I sighed dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Unfair. I thought I was your favorite."
Mrs. Chen finally turned, squinting at me. "Favorite? You’re just a 红龟—always grumbling, always slow. Now, stop whining and let me work."
I huffed but didn’t push my luck. Instead, I nudged Mike, gesturing to his backpack. "Go on, hand her your lunchbox before she changes her mind."
Mike obediently pulled out the small, slightly dented metal container, placing it on the counter. Without missing a beat, Mrs. Chen took it, already ladling in rice and his favorite stir-fried vegetables.
I leaned against the counter, inhaling the rich scent of spices and broth in the air.
"Wow, Mrs. Chen! This tastes amazing!"
Mike couldn't stop gushing, practically bouncing in his seat as he devoured the soup. At his age, even the simplest things seemed magical. I tried to remember if I was ever that easily impressed as a kid, but nothing came to mind. Maybe I never was.
Mrs. Chen didn’t say anything, but the way she moved—quickly scooping up soup dumplings and adding them to his container, along with his favorite stir-fried fish and tofu—told me everything. She was pleased.
I smirked, shaking my head as Mike shoveled more food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days. "Slow down, kid, or you’re gonna choke at the rate you’re inhaling that."
He barely spared me a glance, too focused on stuffing his face.
Sighing, I grabbed his cup and filled it with water before taking a bite of my own food. Warm, savory, comforting. Yeah… this was the only decent part of my mornings.