Wasn’t then, isn’t now.
Our driver honked the horn twice earlier, signalling we’d crossed into Thailand. Hope—dormant so long—stirred in my chest.
But now the car’s been stopped, and rough Thai voices are grilling Wai-Yan, the people-smuggler. Bandits.
Please, Buddha.
The trunk’s wrenched open and I’m dragged, sun-blind, into a forest clearing.
Three men, one scar-faced. He snatches my backpack, scattering clothes. When he rips my pack’s lining and finds the envelope, hope dies again. He tears it, expecting money. He looks inside, then at me—hard.
He shoves me past the treeline, gun in the small of my back. When he stops, I brace for the gunshot. I picture your face—let my last memory be beautiful.
Silence.
When I turn, Scarface brandishes a photograph. There you are—sleepy-smiling, arms wrapped around me.
“Your man?” Scarface’s Burmese is crude but clear.
I’m paralysed.
“Don’t worry. I have man also. Where yours?”
“Murdered,” I rasp. “By Myanmar army.”
The soldiers tore our wardrobe open. You charged out—punching, kicking. Distracting them from me, cowering deeper inside. One shot cracked my life in two.
“I’m sorry.” Scarface touches my arm. “Terrible, people killing their own.”
He marches back, shouting orders. I move towards the trunk, but he waves me to the passenger seat.
The smuggler drives on. “They promised safe passage.” He sounds awed. “How’d you do that?”
I’ve no answer he’d understand.
I think about Scarface’s admission, offered so easily. You called Thailand gay paradise and wanted us to move here. I hesitated until it was too late, the war chewing up lives and dreams.
As we drive, sunlight flickers through the canopy—a dance of dark and light, sorrows and hopes.
Jaime Gill is a British-born writer living in Cambodia. He’s been published by Missouri Review, Fractured Lit, The Forge, Trampset and more. Several of his stories have won awards including the Bridport Prize and New Millennium Writers Award. www.jaimegill.com
No comments:
Post a Comment