Before I am Famous

This story is rated R. Please take this warning seriously. It is violent and not intended for younger readers. Please come back again. Thanks

Here I am, another night in my room, staring at the computer screen, wondering what my friends are doing. They invited me to go out with them again but I just can’t bring myself to leave the house. That’s okay; I’ve got my best friend, Jack, to keep me company. He helps me forget that night, their scruffy faces, their blood on my hands. The doc says I suffer PTSD or post traumatic stress disorder, he tells my parents to give me space. My mother worries when she comes in my room in the morning to the fresh stink of whiskey and me sleeping in a drunken, hazy dreamless sleep. That is the whole point of being friends with Jack, I don’t dream. My name is Allan Li and I killed two people. Maybe I should tell you my story.

Only a couple of months ago, I had a job at the movie theater and a honey of a girlfriend. That night, October 11, to be exact I was the “lucky” and had to clean the floors of theaters while everyone else got to leave when they were finished their jobs. This job, disgusting but it did give some extra hours. I was the last to leave as expected. I just locked the theater doors and gave them on good pull when I heard footsteps but before I could turn around, something hard cracked me on top of the head. Two people lifted me up then I faded away into unconsciousness.

Tides of being awake and dazed came and went, I knew my hands were tied, my head hurt and I was in the bed of a pick up truck. The very next thing that I remembered, my hands still bound behind my back, was laying on the floor. I really would like to say that this was a basement and the cement walls were bare but the room was nice if we only look at it as a room. Must have been a bedroom since someone placed me on the floor beside and a twin bed. Soft light gushed from the over head light and a small window sat directly opposite a wood door. I lay on a hardwood floor as there were non carpets. I tried yelling but my voice wouldn’t work.

I don’t know how long I laid staring at the perfect white ceiling. The door opened, two men came in. One man had a build like a solitaire sheet of paper, young, wiry and quiet. The other compared to the slim one was like an oak tree big and tall and aged face with gray streaks running rampant through his straggly beard.

He spoke first, “Hey chink, you finally awake?” They neared me, the oak tree leading the younger one. Before I knew it, he kicked me hard in the ribs with his steel-toed boot, “don’t like that do you chinky boy?” He snarled then nodding to his partner, “Come on Tiddlywinks show him how hate the chinks.” Wavering slightly, he kicked in the same spot. Pain swelled through my body, my head spun and I thought for that moment that the world would go black.

They kicked in unison. In the foggy pain, I recalled that Asian males were turning up dead battered, beaten and left for the garbage at some dark alley. I couldn’t really believe that I was the next victim. They stopped, the oak tree grabbed my head and peered into my eyes, “you sorry Chink boy for coming over here and thinking you’re all smart taking the good jobs away?”

“What are you talking about?” I muttered since I had no idea on what he referred to.

“How can you not know, stupid chink? You people from China coming over here acting like your superior to everyone else. Then you set up shops and invade our neighborhoods. Tiddlywinks, tell this Chink who we are and what we do.”

Tiddlywinks stepped forward, “we are WMAC, white Americans against Chinks, eradicating all Chinese men from our country to show that America doesn’t welcome chinks.”

“I’m not Chinese,” I said my throat hoarse, “I’m American.”

The oak tree stood up and laughed, “oh boy that is a funny one. I have heard some doozies in my time but that takes the cake. You sure as hell look Chinese.”

“Korean, my grandparents came from Korea,” in my defense. If they were after Chinese, I didn’t want any part in that.

“Don’t make no fucking difference to me, you all are chinks in my eyes,” the oak tree said, “come one Tiddlywinks,” he ordered. Then they slammed the door.

Though my parents taught me to embrace my Korean heritage, I embraced the American heritage instead. It was bad enough in school, people thought I was good in math even though I could care less about math. It took a long time but I found what I loved and that would be playing bass. In high school I grew my hair long and joined a band because I wanted to be like them my friends, not my parents. Then my parents tried fixing me up with a Korean girl. Don’t get me wrong she was really nice but I wasn’t into her. Both of my parents came from parents who moved to America. My grandparents, proud to be Korean wanted their children to preserve the heritage thus they arranged my parent’s marriage. After many failed set-ups, my parents soon realized I would not be dating a nice traditional Korean girl anytime soon, they accepted me and my girlfriend.

Time didn’t exist anymore. They came in and gave me another beating and laughed in my face and spit on me when they were done. I don’t know how many beatings they gave me. I don’t know how long they spent each time. At one point, they came with a cattle prod and jolted me until my body jerked all over the floor. They both laughed hysterically and screamed, “look at the dancing China man.” My blood pooled under my head, pain enveloped my body to a point where I felt no pain because the pain was so great. They left again. I couldn’t die this way. I thought about my parents and my girlfriend and the devastation. I was a fighter and they knew it. If I died without a fight, what would they think of me?

Where the strength came from, I will never know. I inched over the floor looking for something to cut the ropes. After searching, I found a musket setting on a bench in front of the window. There were other guns laying there as well and I wondered why they just shoot me and get it over with. Then it wouldn’t be fun. Stupid rednecks I thought as I stood up slid the knife part of the musket in the ropes. Hours seemed like it passed but it was only minutes. I freed my hands. I had no plan, no idea of what to do next. I wanted to rest on the bed and think of something better.

The door opened again. “What the fuck?” yelled the oak tree. He came toward me, with whatever will power I had left to live, I plunged the musket right below the rib cage and twisted the gun. Blood spewed from his wound. Tiddlywinks followed in the oak tree’s footsteps. I pulled the musket out and the oak tree collapsed to the floor. Repeating the same jaunty motion, I wore Tiddlywinks blood as well. I remembered calling 911 and then world disappeared.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget their faces worn in shock as the blood rushed from their wounds. The doc says I will get better with time. I survived something horrible. I became a hero amongst the Asian-Americans. I know I killed them in self defense it was my life or theirs. What gets me is that I chose to kill someone and did. Am I the same as them? They chose to kill and did. I could’ve run away, maybe injured them enough to run. But instead, I remember the split second choice I made as the oak tree rushed for me, kill them. I will never forget that voice in my head for as long as I am alive, sober or not.

Special thanks to Allan at Allan’s World Music for help with this story!!

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