Interlude: Whip

By Pham Ngoc Trinh

“Don’t hit him….please sir….don’t hit my son…”

High-pitched cries pierces through the night and through his heart like the sting of the whip on his bleeding back. Outside, the rain keep pouring down the roof, the intertwining branches shivers, the wind is fighting a war up in the starless sky. The man grit his white teeth hard and hold the whip up high only to swing it down heavily over and over. His face could be taken for a demon – flushes with blood thirst. The woman’s body collapse over the boy, her fingers grips the boy’s shoulder tightly, and she gave a slight jerk every time the man swing the whip down. His heart in pieces for each jerk, rage clutching at his windpipe, making him unable to breath. But the boy did not shed a tear.

“Filthy slaves, you scum should just drop dead! Ya’ hear me?”

There’s blood seeping through his shoulder and dripping down his face. The woman has fainted, unable to muster any more strength. The boy looks up. His mother’s eyes are wet with tears. He can still feel the sting of the leather on his hand, his face, his head. His body tenses up, then suddenly he get back up, completely letting the long suppressed hatred take control of him and just rush toward the man like a beast, his tiny head rammed into the man’s twice bigger torso and brought him down. Then the boy ran away, he ran into the heavy ran with the sound of the demon echoes behind his back.

Lightning split the night sky. The small figure keep running in the pouring rain until he stop and fall asleep under the old oak tree.