Where the Losers Went

Annabeth Yan

This piece features an exaggerated version of oppression common in education systems. 豫章书院 was a school for troubled kids in Nanchang, China. School authorities guaranteed the parents that their children would be well-behaved upon leaving the school, and students were expected to perform perfectly in every aspect of life, facing horrible consequences if they didn't. The trauma that they experienced accompanied them for the rest of their lives.

A ripple ran through the classroom, followed by abrupt silence. The bitter smell of fear filled the air. The teacher strolled in — his steps even, confident. He looked exactly the same everyday: hair combed back, shirt tucked neatly into his belt, white sleeves rolled up on both sides. On his left wrist, a silver watch flashed every time he gestured. His gaze swept over us: cold, calculating.

I shivered under his glare.

“Your exam is on the fourteenth,” he announced. The corners of his lips were slightly lifted, but the smile did not reach his eyes. So, we had less than two weeks. My nails dug into my palms, an involuntary movement I’d picked up ever since I entered the school. The small prick of pain calmed my nerves.

Ever since year five, I’d been constantly compared to my brother, who was two years my senior. Unlike my brother, who was always top in his class, I had trouble passing my tests. I found it much harder to concentrate on books than to spend hours on the soccer field, while my brother refused to lift his head from the school assignments that captured all of his attention. In the summer of 2004, a trend of going to boarding school swept through our city. My brother received a recruitment letter from one school, and it didn’t take long before he agreed to go. His orientation day was right before my birthday; he gave me a locket as a gift with a note telling me not to open the talisman. I felt relieved the day he left, although the look in his eyes as he walked out our family’s door was disturbingly eager.

I tried to ignore my parents’ repeated mentions of boarding school. I’d pass their bedroom door to hear them talking in raised voices, and I could often make out words like “exam” and “system.” I knew they wanted me to follow in my brother’s footsteps. The day came when they addressed me in tones of voice that left no room for objection. My protests were of no use.

The first day at my new boarding school was the worst of all: the wake-up call at 5AM, stumbling out of bed dreary-eyed to find everyone fully awake and neatly dressed. I trailed behind the crowd swarming into the school building, my head spinning as I searched the walls for my classroom number. I fell into my seat half-dazed, only to find a thick stack of papers awaiting me on my desk. Every printed line seemed to attack me, piercing my thoughts and breaking my pride. Our schedule was full of tests. Every month ended with exams. “It’s not about IQ,” they told us, “it’s about trying hard.” I joked one night after lights out that the school was trying to brainwash us. Nobody laughed. 

The days progressed, slowly and painfully.

One night I woke to find red eyes blinking at me in the dark. Slipping out of bed, I turned on the light, but the queer flashing was gone. Troubled, I tried to sleep, but the image clung to me. The uneasy feeling haunted my dreams. Pain shot down the back of my scalp every time I stayed up late. I felt like a caged animal, invisible walls closing in.

We whispered like ghosts in the hallways. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I found a gaunt figure staring back at me with dull eyes. Numbness spread through me. I was losing myself, just like everyone else. We all had the same haunted eyes. I tried to hang on, but some part of me was slipping away.

The annual exam hovered over us: a predator awaiting its prey. We’d all heard rumors about this test from senior students: that our grades would seal our fate, that a failing report would become the only trace of existence left behind by its owner. They shook their heads when they heard about one of us struggling to pass tests. The only expression on their faces was sympathy.

It was already midnight when I found myself wandering the streets. A couple of students drifted by, their faces tight and composed, backpacks hanging heavily from their shoulders. I called out to a senior who was giving directions to newcomers, trying to bring some enthusiasm into my voice. He acknowledged me with a slight nod. I wanted to ask him about the rumors, but thought better of it. The dorm lights were hazy in the distance, and for a moment my brain cleared. What was the point of this endless cycle of suffering? I was unable to land on an answer.

I pulled my brother aside a week before the exam. After his graduation, he stayed behind as a teacher’s assistant. He would be leaving soon, though he wouldn’t tell me where he was heading.

“Where do they go? I mean, the students who fail the annual exam.”

I noticed the same watch that my teacher wore on my brother’s left wrist. I couldn’t help but stare at its intricate silver design. A small metal disk was embedded in the lower half of its frame. I glanced up as he grabbed my arm.

“Losers go somewhere else,” he said, his brow furrowing. “They go where they belong.”

I stared him in the eye. His features had not changed, but something about his posture was unfamiliar. The way his sleeves were neatly rolled up. The stiffness in his stance. He folded his arms, the watch hidden in the folds of his shirt. A chill ran over me. This was not my brother.

It was hard to ignore the growing tension. Every time the teacher gave orders, someone would jump, quickly concealing their anxiety when he turned toward them. A girl folded a paper doll when she was supposed to be writing her papers. I saw her scribbling the teacher’s name over it, then stabbing at it viciously until the ink blotched like tears. I spent my waking hours in agony and frustration. On the very last day before the test, I examined every face in my class, trying to remember them.

The day the reports were passed out, I heard the sound of sobbing. It rang out loudly in the otherwise silent classroom. I recognized the crying boy immediately. We often saw him standing in front of the teacher’s office, his knuckles white against his heavy textbook. It wasn’t hard to remember his face in those moments: the hope burning in his eyes had ignited something within me as I watched him standing there with his back straight. I remember marveling at his unwavering faith that he could one day earn the recognition of the school and become a teacher’s assistant.​

Now, the same boy was sitting there, his shoulders sagging as he rocked back and forth. His ashen face was turned sideways. His eyes were glassy, their blaze turned to embers. I saw the F dripping red.

I waited for my brother after the announcements ended. Students got up quietly and left one by one. Soon, only the empty classroom reflected my inner thoughts. I stared blankly at the blackboard, phantoms filling my vision as my eyelids drooped. I saw the teacher bending over a pile of graded tests, turning around as if he sensed my eyes on his back. His thin lips curled into a wide grin that nearly split his face. I could see his small, pointed teeth. His eyes blinked red. Startled, I searched the classroom desperately, cold sweat drenching my back.

My brother never came.

I stepped outside the building to find the world silent outside. A chill lingered in the air. It was unnerving. Too quiet, too dark. My senses sharpened, my ears capturing every noise. The smell of damp earth mixed with a scent that alarmed me. It was the smell of fresh blood.

I made my way through the thicket directly opposite the school building, my eyes adjusting to the dark. A sudden movement caught my eye, and I knelt quickly in the underbrush. Voices, followed by a scream. I peered over into the clearing, but couldn’t make out any faces. A car horn blared, the headlights bright in my eyes. A boy knelt in front of two men, one carrying a stick. The man brought the stick down heavily on the boy’s ravaged body as the boy turned his face up to the light. This time I could tell who he was. One eye swollen shut, tears running down his cheeks. The boy had on a ragged uniform, his back a mess of torn flesh. It was the same color as the F on his paper.

The two men had their backs to me. One picked the boy up like a rag-doll, thrusting him into the back of the car. The boy protested, and I heard a pitiful, desperate “No.”​

A drowsy feeling overcame me as I knelt there, frozen on the spot. I was about to nod off when something red flashed in the corner of my vision. I tore my brother’s birthday present from my neck, the thin chain hanging loosely from my fingers. My hands were shaking as I held the silver locket. There was a gentle click as the panel slid open. I peered closely at the picture of two small boys, me and my brother, his arm thrown around my shoulder, both of us grinning toothily at the camera. In place of his left eye was a small metal disk.

Blink.

My blood ran cold.