First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [62]
“Just go,” the soldier interrupts him. “Take your bags and go. Don’t ever come back because next time I will shoot your brains out.” Kim rises unsteadily to his feet and limps home.
At home, Chou, Ma, Geak, and I sit quietly waiting for Kim to return. “Chou, Kim’s really late tonight. I’m worried about him,” I say to her.
“It’s hard to see out there. He’s probably lost his way. It’s raining pretty hard.” Upon hearing me, the night turns black with evil as the wind howls and a thunderstorm cracks its lightning whips above us. Ma quietly tries to calm Geak, who is afraid of the storm. I turn and see Ma put her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. My gaze turns to the direction where Ma is looking. Against the backdrop of the dark, I see Kim’s twelve-year-old body leaning against the door. In his hand are two empty rain-soaked bags. He is drenched from the rain, but I see the unmistakable color of blood on his clothes and marks on his muddy face. His eyes are half closed, he is shaken, but he does not cry. Ma rushes over to him and gently touches his wounded face. She cries over his cut swollen lips and cringes as she touches the blood dripping from his skull.
“My poor little monkey, my poor little monkey. Look what they have done to you. They have hurt you, my poor little monkey.”
Kim is quiet and does not resist Ma’s help taking off his wet shirt. I bite my lip at seeing my brother’s body so badly beaten. Raw, red marks and painful bruises are everywhere on his rib cage and back. I want to rush over to him to take away his pain, but instead I stand numb in the corner of the room. I see the pain in his face and feel the heaviness in his heart at not being able to bring us food. I stand in my corner with more conviction than ever to kill these soldiers, to avenge the blood that drips from my brother’s skull. Someday, I will kill them all. My hatred for them is boundless.
“It was raining too hard and I did not hear them coming.”
“My poor monkey, they hurt you.”
“They hit me on the head with the butt of their rifles.” Kim finishes telling us his story and still he does not cry. He flinches when Ma puts a wet rag on his bruised and bleeding head. “I am sorry I didn’t get us any corn tonight,” he says to all of us as he lays down, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.
Fearing he might die and I will not know about it, I walk over to him every few minutes and put my hand under his nose to feel his breath. “Pa,” I call quietly. “Pa, don’t let Kim die. Pa, I feel so bad, all this for corn to feed us. Pa, I am bad because I am also sad that we have no corn.” Crouching beside Kim, I squeeze my stomach with my hands, trying to chase the pain away. “Pa, I am going to kill them all. I am going to make them suffer.” My head hurts and I press my index fingers against my temples to try and stop the explosion. The stronger my anger, the more I am overcome with feelings of sadness and despair. “I can’t die, Pa. There’s nothing we can do but go on living. But, one day, they will all suffer as we are suffering now.”
After that night, Kim never stole again. These days he is quieter and more withdrawn. With Pa gone and my older brothers at their camp, Kim is the man of the house. But in reality his is only a little boy, a little boy who feels helpless and unable to protect his own family.
leaving home
May 1977
One month has gone by