He replaced the official confession with Pran’s original confession. Folded up the official one and placed that in his shirt pocket. All too easy. He hefted the file drawer back into place and nodded at the guard. “I’m finished.” He wiped away the seedlings of tears in his eyes.
Too easy.
Would this truly let him sleep?
He walked quickly down the corridors past cells once used for education, then again for re-education. He exited into the courtyard in the center of the compound and heard the laughter and cries of children. The sun was high and hot. The children were dressed in black shirts and red scarves.
Some of them looked up as he neared them. One caught a ball and held it against his chest. He motioned for Samnang to join them. They all stood watching Samnang, waiting. Samnang smiled at them. How long had it been since he played kickball?
The one with the ball drew back and rolled the ball to Samnang. It rolled unevenly over the close-cropped grass. There was hair on the ball, and tan flesh-like protrusions.
Ears, a nose, lips, eyes.
It stopped at Samnang’s feet. He did not kick it. He stood and stared.
Here. Here is Pran. This is Pran.
Pran’s lips contorted into a smile.
As Samnang stared, gasping, he sensed the children walking slowly toward him. They whispered one word over and over.
A chorus of whispers.
Each of them pulled a plastic bag from their pockets.
Whispers that rose up into the wind.
One after the other, they opened their bags.
They surrounded him.
“Please.” Samnang held up Pran’s head. “I came here for him. That is all.”
A young boy came up to him. “Confess!” The boy pulled the bag over Samnang’s head.
A girl ran up to him. “Confess!” She put her bag over his head.
In quick succession, one after the other pulled their bags over Samnang’s head. As his vision faded, it looked as if the playground opened up. He felt bony hands reach up and grab him, pulling.
There is a story that the children visiting the Tuol Sleng museum that day now tell their friends and family. They say a man picked up a soccer ball and held it in front of him. They say the man cried and talked to the ball and kissed it.
They also say that the man turned blue, and that he fell to the ground tearing off the skin of his own face.
The children are often asked, “But what happened to the man? Did you help him?”
The children look away. How can they explain the pleasure, the rightness they felt as they each took turns kicking the old man’s body, beating it into the hard-packed soil? Or the museum guards who stood silently as they smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, their eyes black and dead like those in the photographs that lined the museum walls?
About the Author
Joel Arnold’s work has appeared in over five-dozen publications, ranging from Weird Tales and Gothic.Net to American Road Magazine and Cat Fancy. He’s the recipient of a Minnesota State Arts Board 2010 Artists Initiative Grant, and has participated in the Carol Connolly Speculations reading series. He lives in the aptly named Savage, Minnesota with his wife and two kids. He’d love to hear from you at joelarnold@mchsi.com. You can check out his blog at http://joelarnold.livejournal.com.
If you enjoyed the stories in this collection, please check out his novel Evelyn’s Drum, a psychological thriller.
