When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [64]
“Comrade, what are you doing? Are you stealing?” a fierce voice demands.
I turn. Before me stands a tall, skinny man, dressed in black, carrying a long curved knife on his shoulder.
“No, I’m not. I’m not stealing. I’m only picking slark khnarng,” I say timidly, frightened by his accusing words, his sudden appearance.
He grabs me by the arm and drags me around the yucca field like a bag of rice. My arm feels as if it could be yanked off. I beg him repeatedly, “Please don’t hurt me,” but he says nothing. Reaching a tree, he drops his long knife to the ground and pulls my arms behind me. Snaking a rough rope around my skinny arms, he binds them tightly from wrist to elbow. Ignoring my pleas, he yanks my scarf from my neck and throws it on the ground. He pushes me down on my knees and binds me to the tree, the posture of a criminal soon to be executed. He must see the sour leaves, now all over the ground.
With cool indifference, he announces my sentence. “I will kill you at sunset,” he says, delivering his verdict from behind a tree.
I beseech him, my voice rising. “Please don’t kill me. I wasn’t stealing. I was just picking slark khnarng for a swollen foot. I’m telling you the truth! Please spare my life!”
“Don’t lie, comrade,” he shouts. “I don’t believe you. I will kill you. Say no more!”
I sob, “If you don’t believe me, just look at my infected wound. I don’t lie. I need slark khnarng. My foot hurts at night. Please spare my life. Don’t kill me….”
I wish I could bow down to him, sink into the dirt before his feet, begging his forgiveness. But it’s too late. My words don’t reach him.
His voice trails off, shouting in near-triumph, crowing like a bully who has had his way, “I’ll cut off your head at sunset so people coming from work can see you—they won’t follow your bad example.” His footsteps crunch on dry leaves.
I look at the sour leaves scattered on the ground. I keep thinking how it’s the small things that get me into trouble. Sucking sweet grass with Cheng. And now this. How can I be accused of stealing when there’s nothing in my scarf—only sour leaves. I stare at the hole in the fence where I sneaked through only moments ago. Now I wish that whoever made it had left more thorns in it. I wouldn’t have gotten in. As time passes, I cry hard and loud, tears of fear and frustration. In time, my sobbing becomes softer. My destiny awaits.
The sun is now behind the tree, its rays filtering through branches in a shifting dance. Suddenly I’m awakened by birdsong. Maybe they cry for me. I listen to them and I remember an old Cambodian warning: “When the owl cries, it will take someone’s life,” the spirit winging away with the bird. Now I hear birds cry. Later, perhaps the owl will hoot, announcing the fact that I will be beheaded.
As the sun begins to set, I speak to my heart, to Buddha, to Pa’s spirit, silently begging for a second chance at life. I’m not ready to die. My prayers are broken by my fear of the man in black. I imagine him returning, raising that long curved knife in the air. I can feel my own body cringing, feel the hiss of air as it swings toward my neck. Fear chills me. I shut my eyes and lower my head, looking for the courage to face the blade.
Suddenly footsteps echo on the dry leaves. I drop my last tears, my eyes dry with fear. The air is warm, but I’m shaking with cold. I look down at the ground and shut my eyes. I tighten my body, bracing for pain. I don’t know whether I should scream or bite my lip. When he comes closer, I get ready to die.
All of a sudden, I feel a tug on the rope that snakes about my arms. I cringe. I squint my eyes tighter. Soon my arms swing free, released from the trunk of the tree, and I slump to the ground. I open my eyes and turn.
The man in black speaks sternly. “Comrade, now I set you free. Don’t do that again.” He says no more.
He loosens the rough rope