First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [92]
The only bright spot in the family is Paof, the fourteen-year-old brother, who is very nice to me. He often takes me fishing and swimming with him and introduces me to people as his new sister. I like him; it is nice to be treated kindly. I know he likes me; he says as much. Yet at times there is something about him that gnaws at me. The odd ways I catch him looking at me—his eyes lingering too long over my face and body—makes my stomach queasy.
While picking firewood in the forest one day, someone comes up from behind me and grabs my waist. I swing around ready to attack but stop when I realize it is Paof. The clouds darken and follow above us. He walks toward me, his hand sliding on my flat chest around to my back, pulling me close to him in a tight grip. He breathes heavily, his wet lips on my cheek. In a surge of anger, I slap him across the face and push him away.
“Leave me alone! Get away from me!” I scream into his face.
“What’s the problem, am I not nice to you? You like me, I know you do.” He smirks and approaches me again. I want to rip his lips off his face. “Get away or I’ll tell on you!”
“All right,” he says, and his eyes glare at me. “Who will believe you? It’s your fault anyway, always tagging along and going places with me.” Spitting at his feet, I turn and run away. Paof is right: I cannot fight him. I cannot tell anyone—not even Kim and Chou. There is nothing I can do but keep away from him. I do not want to cause trouble with our new family. I do not want to live on the streets again.
I avoid Paof after that. Wherever he is, I am not. Whichever direction he goes, I go the opposite, and with each passing day my heart blackens with hatred for him, but I keep it all inside. I keep it well hidden as Paof laughs and goes fishing with Kim.
The arrangement with the family works well for me since I am used to long hours of labor. But no matter how hard we work, they let us know we are never efficient enough. To make matters worse, the mother often wonders out loud in front of us whether we are worth our keep. We know very little about the family and dare not ask them questions. Though we all now live in the newly liberated zone, after almost four years of living with secrets, it is hard to change. We do not know whether they were supporters of the Khmer Rouge or if they were base people. Even if the family doesn’t love us, they do feed us a sufficient amount of rice, fish that the boys catch in the river, and vegetables from the garden. The family has many fifty-pound sackcloth bags of rice hidden in their corner of the hut. I don’t know how they got them.
Each morning we set off, always the three of us: Chou, our girlfriend Pithy, and I. Pithy is Chou’s age and, like Chou, is rather meek and not much of a speaker. Soldiers took her father away too, so now she lives with her mom and older brother. We first met Pithy while gathering water by the stream. We watched her fold her scarf and place it on her head. She was our size, with pretty brown eyes and skin. She still wore the black Khmer Rouge pajama shirt and pants, but her hair was growing out of the blunt Khmer Rouge cut. She struggled to lift her clay water jug on her shoulders. Chou walked over to help her. From then on she was our friend. Though she lives on the other side, of town, she often meets us to gather firewood.
I don’t mind the task, but I hate having to roam around the woods barefoot. I am wary of snakes. The ground is covered with leaves and branches, so I cannot see what’s slithering beneath them. Once, I stepped on something that at first looked like a small brown stick, but then the stick wriggled, squirmed, and slid away. The sole of my foot tickled, sending shivers all over my body.
At sunrise, Chou and I greet Pithy at our meeting place on the road. The haze is pink today. I rub my eyes, yawn, and adjust the ropes we brought to tie the wood, slinging them over my shoulders. Cradling an axe in her arms, Chou glowers at me for forgetting the canteen. Side by side, we walk into the woods, far away from the displaced