Brandon Qi

Identity portofolio

The revolution

! I  woke  up  to  the  decayed  smell  of  the  jail  cell.

  Breakfast  was  already  served.  Today,  again,  ro=en  rice.  I  picked  out  all  the  green  mold  

and  all  the  remnants  of  some  insect.  Jail  breakfasts  are  everything  the  people  out  there  

dumped  or  didn’t  want.  Rice  with  some  dead  (someCmes  alive)  insects,  bad  spinaches,  no  meat  

at  all.  SCll,  they  are  valuable  food.  Compared  to  somedays  where  there’s  just  no  food  at  all,  

today’s  breakfast  tastes  like  heaven.  The  jail  cell  was  only  three  square  meters,  allowing  four  to  

only  barely  squeeze  in  it,  and  those  people  were  me  and  my  cell  mates.

  The  cell  had  a  window,  which  was  quite  nice  compared  to  some  other  jails.  The  jail  was  

built  by  some  BriCsh,  which  made  it  just  barely  be=er  than  the  local  ones.  I  choked  on  the  three  

li=le  dead  ants  I  ate  that  I  just  mistaken  for  sesame  seeds.  Wow,  when  did  I  start  recognizing  

the  taste  of  ants?

  AJer  finally  spiLng  the  ants  out,  I  finished  the  months-­‐old  rice,  and  tried  stretching  my  

arms,  but  accidentally  hit  another  jail  mate,  who,  glanced  are  swore  at  me.

  The  three  other  criminals  were  not  like  me.  I  just  moved  into  this  jail  cell  about  a  week  

ago,  so  we  sCll  don’t  know  each  other  too  well.  One  thing  that  I  am  sure  of,  though,  is  that  they  

were  the  real  criminals,  not  me.

  My  family...  I  stared  at  the  wall.  Maria,  my  wife,  she’s  in  the  women’s  jail.  Five  years  in  

jail.  Me,  eight.  This  is,  I  think,  my  third  or  fourth  year.  Mark  and  Julia,  my  children...  They  are  so  

young.  I  could  imagine  them  in  school,  bullied,  because  their  father  is  a  so  called  “traitor”.  

  I  just  hope  that  they’re  all  right  with  father.  I  thought.  It  is  all  Empress  Frencesco  and  the  

Quatre  Escouade  Homme.  One  day,  eventually,  they  will  step  down.  I  won’t  go  down  unless  the  

Quatre  Escouade  Homme  goes  down  first.  It  is  this  very  belief  that  gave  me  the  courage  to  live.

  The  guard  passed  the  newspapers  weeks  old  got  passed  to  our  cell.  Oh  god,  I  thought  as  

I  brought  the  paper  closer,  It  smells  like  someone  has  used  it  as  some  cover  for  pig  leEovers.  

“Putain  de  merde,”  I  swore  in  French.  Really  quietly,  though,  since  if  the  jail  guard  heard  that,  

I’d  be  dead,  literally.  

  Of  course,  as  always,  the  newspaper  contains  just  more  arCcles  about  the  greatness  of  

Emperor  Francesco,  and  more  list  of  traitors  wanted  or  caught  in  jail.  Nothing  really  catchy,  not  

even  any  real  news  about  current  events.  This  revoluCon  has  altered  the  news,  the  lives  of  

people,  the  country  itself...  everything.

  The  jail  guard  stared  at  me,  and  suddenly  snatched  my  newspaper:  “Stop  reading.  You  

guys  know  what  to  do.”

  Torture  Hme.  I  sighed.  When  guards  say  that,  it  means  that  we  will  have  to  confess  our  

crimes,  and  say  what  betrays  our  heart.  The  first  step  is  to  cheer  for  Emperor  Francesco.

  “Long  live  Emperor  Francesco.”  The  four  of  us  all  said,  in  unison.  

  No!  This  is  wrong,  he  should  die  fast  for  eternal  peace,  I  said  silently.

  The  jail  guard,  of  course,  having  not  heard  my  curse,  seemed  pleased:  “Now,  that’s  

more  like  it.  If  you  had  thought  so  before  you  did  your  crime,  you  wouldn’t  have  ended  in  here.  

So,  tell  me,  what  are  your  crimes  and  why  is  it  horrible?”

  One  of  my  jail  mates,  a  pale,  skinny  man  with  glasses  started:  “I...  I  was  a  priest  and  I  

taught  kids.  I  have  influenced  them  badly.”

  The  guard  nodded,  and  turned  to  me:  “Well,  now.  Marcedes  Franco,  I  know  you.  I  have  

heard  stories  about  your...  Malicious  father-­‐in-­‐law.  He  was  quite  rich,  I  see.”

  I  focused  at  the  guard.  My  father?  He  was  an  AnC-­‐french,  and  he  was  one  of  the  kindest  

people  I’ve  ever  known.  The  french  party  twists  everything.

  “A  long  Cme  ago,  your  father  donated  some...  Drugs,  to  the  ones  that  are  sick,  right?”

  I  nodded:  “They  are...  Medicines  to  help  them.  They  can’t...”

  “Do  not  talk  back  to  me!”  The  guard  yelled,  “now,  that  is  completely  wrong,  you  

understand?”

  What?  I  stared  at  the  guard.  SomeCmes,  

the  french  party  says  words  that  don’t  make  any  

sense.  SomeCmes,  they  are  a  bit  insulCng  and  

irritaCng.  This  is  completely  different,  though.  

This  is  just  pure  madness  of  the  french  party,  

and  lies  that  are  off  the  limit.  A  mix  of  confusion  

and  anger  flowed  through  me.  

  “That  is  drug!  That  is  poisoning,  you  are  

disrespecCng  the  social  status!  Understand?”  The  guard  conCnued,  and  suddenly,  with  a  loud  

“slap”,  leJ  a  red  mark  on  my  cheek.  

  I  nodded  again,  not  complaining  about  anything.

  But  inside,  my  heart  is  pumping.  This  is  geLng  serious.  He  has  put  me  on  the  line.  I  

would  tear  him  into  pieces,  shred  his  guts,  and  toss  them  into  the  river  if  I  could.  My  hands  

were  shaking,  my  insCncts  telling  me  to  just  punch  him  in  the  face  through  the  bar  lines.  There  

would  surely  be  punishment  aJerwards,  most  likely  death,  but  I  didn’t  care.  I  am  a  devil  who  

has  just  broken  his  chains,  now  seeking  revenge  on  all  those  that  harmed  him.  I  clenched  my  

fist,  Cghter.  Mark,  Julia,  and  Maria...  I  am  sorry.  I  probably  won’t  be  living  in  this  world  soon.  My  

children,  I  am  sorry.  Family  honor  is  not  something  the  french  party  could  insult.  

  I  slowly  raised  my  arm  for  the  strike.  All  my  strength  is  focused  on  that  very  fist.  My  

cheek  is  burning,  but  the  guard  will  soon  feel  that  pain  too.  I  am  ready.

  The  guard  turned  to  the  next  jail  mate.  It’s  my  chance  now.  The  priest  saw  my  pose,  and  

quietly  whispered:  “Don’t  do  this!”

  “I  have  decided.”  I  confided  back.

  Fast  as  lightning,  I  threw  out  my  arm  as  the  next  jail  mate  confessed:  “I  killed  a  young  

man.  His  son  is  now  with  his  mother,  without  

a  father...  The  son’s  so  young...  He’s  about...  

Seven?  I  think?”

  I  stopped  midair.

  Seven,  that’s  about  the  age  of  Mark.  

And  Julia  is  even  younger.  I’m  an  idiot.  I’m  an  

idiot!  I  slowly  turned  towards  the  priest,  who  

was  sympatheCcally  staring  at  me.  

  I  dropped  and  released  my  clenched  

fist,  and  allowed  myself  to  calm.  I  thought  

about  my  father’s  kindness.  I  thought  about  

him  saying  it’s  fine  to  all  those  who  criCcized  

him.  I’m  sure  he  wouldn’t  be  mad  at  the  guard,  

so  what  am  I  doing?  By  hiLng  the  guard  and  sacrificing  my  life,  that  is  what  would  upset  father.  

That  is  what  would  make  father  weep.

  What  I’m  doing  would  just  bring  my  

family  more  suffering  and  misery.

  Endure  the  agony,  I  told  myself,  and  

bliss  will  eventually  arrive.  The  devil  inside  

me  has  been  chained  up  again,  except,  this  

Cme,  I’m  sure  that  it  will  never  pop  up  again.

  The  rest  of  the  day  passed,  quickly,  

as  we  conCnued  to  get  brainwashed  and  

mentally  tortured,  but,  the  physical  pain  seemed  to  dissolve  under  the  warmth  of  just  the  

thought  of  family.  Out  of  my  enCre  jail  life,  this  was  the  first  and  only  day  that  I  ever  even  dared  

thinking  about  rebelling,  about  punching  the  jail  guard  in  the  face  and  sacrificing  what  was  

really  important.  As  years  passed  and  the  revoluCon  reached  an  end,  even  as  I  aged  and  grew  

li=le  lines  on  my  forehead,  the  devil  has  never  popped  up,  ever,  again.