“I am a bean bag round.”
This is a submission from a Form 2 (Grade 8) student.
Illustrator: Christy
I am a bean bag round, a long term resident of the warehouse, living close by my best friend, Tear gas. People often underestimate my destructive power, but I am actually not too different from other bullets— very dangerous indeed and generally used in warfare and revolts.
Ever since tear gas started going out, he had never stopped talking about his thrilling experiences: There were a lot of “rioters” out there hurting our owners with bricks, affecting our city’s commute and economy with their non-cooperation movements… so we have to help our owners stop this violence. I was very proud of tear gas defending our owners and longed for the day when I can see it for myself.
Finally, this day has come!
One evening, our owner took me and some other bean bag rounds with him. Wonderful! I’ve finally got the chance to meet these ‘rioters’! My owner placed me onto his duty belt, from which I had a hazy view of the outside. What I saw was not a mob of thugs; but a group of defenceless students. Without proper protection, each one of them is only equipped with a helmet, a mask, and umbrellas in their hands. In their eyes, I did not see any urge to assault or riot but a passion—a passion to protect their home, and their spirit of never giving up. I started to wonder: why are our owners shooting these students who are merely expressing their demands? Are they guilty of anything?
I looked up just when tear gas was running across the sky, irritating adults, elderly and children on the streets. Tear gas kept waving at me. “Join me!”. I couldn’t bring myself to wave back at tear gas: the more I saw the more appalling and heartless I felt. I glanced back for a look at our owners. They all had stone-cold expressions on their faces like robots; and each action they create is equally cruel. They were no longer what they used to be; I could hardly recognise them as protectors of the city. And I... have become the very tool for them to harm others.
As these thoughts were racing through my mind, I was loaded into the chamber before I could realise it. Is he going to shoot the people in front of us? I started to panic—in desperation, I tried to hold on to the barrel with the little strength I had. But it was all a futile effort, With a squeeze of the trigger I was sent flying. ‘Bang’. The pressure outside crushed my body painfully before I felt myself hitting my target.
A scream. I had just hit her eye! Her knees on the ground, hands covering her eye. A few first-aiders rushed to help, yet she kept bleeding. It was such a horrifying scene.
Other bean bag rounds used to tell stories that the moment you hit a person, you have a glimpse of that person’s life before you. I didn’t believe that until today, when I hit that reporter’s eye—I finally saw how the government turned a blind eye to the people’s demands, their passion, ambition, and dreams they have for their home.
I have never been so ashamed of being a bean bag round. Perhaps, what’s truly scary isn’t a bean bag round but one’s heart. A round has been fired and there’s no return, just like how we have reached the point of no return in Hong Kong.
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