BOCHEN
The base of the building sprouted without warning one day from the grayish-brown dirt of the polluted city, declaring its arrival to the residents of the compound. The following Monday, workers were seen making their way in and out of the little dune of a structure, yellow plastic construction hats glowing like suns under the summer heat. From Building D, Room 1201, they were just meaningless colored dots swarming around on the ground, colliding, weaving, and crossing over each other, wandering aimlessly night and day. They didn’t mean anything to you, but the adults were irritated. Phrases such as “10 million yuan…” “Blocking the view” were brought up at the table, over your dad’s still-boiling pork rib stew or your mom’s japanese curry. You only cared about the food, really. Between mouthfuls of jasmine rice and miso soup, you let your thoughts wander to your lego and slime collections a door away, sprawled across your little green bed like scattered thoughts in your head.
Your mom and your dad still fought, but you stopped letting that get to you a long time ago. It’s not like you’re a fictional character in a short story and that’s your defining characteristic, because your world was so much bigger than that. You loved math, figuring stuff out, machines, Frankenstein, and Star Wars like every little boy born in Gen Z. Mom and dad would make up after every fight anyway, grudgingly picking up whatever they threw at the wall and on the ground, holding each other’s hands and going to get drinks together. No, they weren’t alcoholics. Your dad swore a little much and your mom was too strict at times(no phones after 9 pm, ugh), but they were the best people, very intelligent, and you aspired to be like them one day. Leading a bourgeoise lifestyle and blissfully of your privileges, you’re happy. It’s only when you see the people with cracked hands picking up bottles at the edge of the city that you cry, leaving whatever you had in your pockets in their frozen palms. At other times, you were content.