TWENTY

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DISCLAIMER:

Story might have disturbing content. Read at your own discretion. All factual errors, as well as errors in writing, are mine, and unintentional. This is a work of fiction. The situations presented in the story and the feasibility of it happening is debatable.

"Wake up, Hasnul," said the guard at the door. But it wasn’t necessary: he was already up. He had been for the past hour or so. He sighed and arched his back, stretching his arms and legs as well. The guard banged on metal bars with a short baton. “Come on, medical check-up.” 

“Just me?” Hasnul asked, not really expecting an answer.

“And a few others.”

Hasnul nodded and washed his face from the small sink in his cell. He leaned on his arms and raised his head, scanning the tiny rectangle he’s been calling his own for the past seven months. He heard banging on the metal bars again and the door being unlocked.

“Come on, Hasnul.” The guard smelled like lukewarm roti canai and tepid dhall.

“Had a good breakfast?” Hasnul said.

“Yes,” was the curt, short reply.

“Am I gonna get mine before the check-up?”

“No.”

Hasnul snorted. He stepped out of his cell and saw a neat line of fellow inmates already formed adjacent to the cells. He made a quick count; there were nine of them. He joined the line and the guard led them to the infirmary for their medical check-up. Hasnul was the last in line. The inmate standing in front of him was a scrawny Indian with a shaved head. They walked, some of them shuffling their feet lazily. None of them talked though.

Hasnul sensed a thick stillness in the air. For all purposes, they knew why there were going for the medical check-up. He knew. His attempt at banter with the prison guard was a way of defending his own mind from the event that would happen soon.

He took a deep breath as they reached the infirmary. He suddenly wished he had a fever, or a sudden onset of the shits or whatever. But of course, when his time came for the check-up, the doctor confirmed that he was as fit as a horse.

“You’re all clear,” said the doctor, who looked like a thinner, taller version of SM Salim. Soon after, another prison guard, along with a police officer, arrived at the infirmary. The police officer was a kind looking man with a moustache as thick as a broom.

“Is everyone ready?” he asked, but to no one in particular. He looked at the inmates, and gave a satisfied nod. He motioned to the prison guard. “Bring them to the courtyard.”

At the mention of this, some of the inmates along with Hasnul swallowed. One of them started looking visibly nervous. Hasnul himself felt a pit in his stomach, and his head felt dizzy. The prison guard led them to the courtyard. As they passed by, they heard the whipping sounds.

To Hasnul, they sounded very loud. Occasionally they heard muffled cries of pain coming from the convicts.

Soon enough Hasnul and the others were led into a sun-lit courtyard. All the prisoners took a look at the rack; A-shaped, ready to receive them. About 20 meters opposite the rack was a tent set up, and beneath the shade, sat at a small office desk, was the police officer in charge. The officer cast long glances at the prisoners, including Hasnul, as they were led to an empty room. Hasnul noticed the presence of several other prison personnel, including the doctor who had given them their check-up. He must have arrived just after them.

They were led to a waiting room, with a single guard on watch.

“How many have you got?” asked a dark skinned Malay man to another prisoner with a snaggle toothed grin.

“Ten, God forgive me.”

“Fifteen.”

“Six.”

The answers volleyed back and forth between them, and Hasnul noticed all of them were trying to make light of the situation. Hasnul himself felt his knees were turning into rubber, and there was a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t quite settle. A few of the prisoners nervously shook their hands and feet, as if it would help.

The first prisoner was summoned. The rest looked at him solemnly as the prison officer led him out. From the courtyard they heard the sentence being announced, and they heard the voice of their fellow convict answer the trivial queries by the officer in charge.

“Sometimes I think I’d rather get 100 years in prison rather than face this day,” one of the waiting convicts said. A few of them agreed. Hasnul hung his head between his knees as he sat on the floor, his buttocks cool from the cement. A prison guard stepped inside the room and announced, “Hasnul Ariff bin Hasnul Mat.

”

Hasnul stood up, slowly and deliberately. “Yes, Tuan.”

“Follow me.”

They stepped into the courtyard. The caning rack was empty, but Hasnul could have sworn he saw droplets of blood on the cement floor. The whipsman, a burly, muscular Indian man, was taking his pick from a rack of thick rattan canes. Hasnul was led to the tent and he faced the officer in charge.

“Hasnul Ariff bin Hasnul Mat,” said the officer. “Identification card number 740909-04-4439.”

“Yes, Tuan.”

“Today you are to be sentenced to 20 strokes of the rotan.” The officer let it hang. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Tuan.”

“If so, you may go and prepare. Thank you.”

“Yes, Tuan. Thank you, Tuan.”

Hasnul felt like an idiot. There were so many eyes present to witness the caning. This was not merely a physical punishment, he thought. His mind would hurt as much as his buttocks.

He was then led to a small room

.

“Please undress and put on this loincloth,” the escorting officer said. His name tag read ‘Malik’.

“Prepare, cooperate, and this will be over before you know it.” Officer Malik then left the room as Hasnul undressed and put on the loincloth. The loincloth seemed like nothing more than a small leather apron which covered his genitals, leaving his buttocks exposed.

He took deep breaths, and, as an afterthought, he slapped his butt-cheeks a few times. He thought that might help numb the nerves. He paced in the small room. The first fingers of fear began to brush him, and started to sweat. The beads of perspiration were cold, and felt very heavy on his skin. His mind was swirling and his thoughts landed on some familiar faces from his past life. A life he had spent and wasted through one fatal error in judgment. He felt the pangs of a headache.

Faces. Young faces, bubbly, full of life. The laughter of children.

Hasnul steadied himself. The fear was being augmented by another powerful feeling; guilt.

More giggling. The cacophony of noises from a playground.

Hasnul rubbed his face with the palm of his hands.

“Ready?”

He turned at the voice, startled. It was the prison guard, Malik. Hasnul hesitated. Finally he nodded.

“Come,” the guard said. Hasnul moved after him as he was led to the caning rack. A few prison officials or policemen (he didn’t know, and at this point, it didn’t matter) were already there, along with the doctor. The officer who escorted him motioned for him to lie flat on his stomach on the caning rack.

“Spread your legs, lean forward,” said one of the guards. Hasnul complied.

Two young girls. One of them had curly brown hair and honey brown skin. The other was a Pan-Asian girl with grey eyes. Beautiful.

The prison guards tied him on the rack. When he was secure, they strapped a guard, which looked like a saddle, on his buttocks. The guard exposed the solid meat of the gluteus while keeping the other areas protected. That was where he would be caned.

Hasnul, watching. The two young girls were playing badminton. The other children didn’t pay attention to them. Hasnul was. From his car, he watched their lithe young bodies move on the court. He started to feel a familiar tingle from his loins.

The prison guards finished securing him to the rack and gave the thumbs up to an officer in full police uniform, standing beside the rack. The caner, the same muscular Indian man, had taken his position behind Hasnul. Hasnul couldn’t see him, of course. But he somehow felt the mans presence.

Hasnul in the car, rubbing his crotch. His heart skipped a beat as one of the girls jumped for a smash, and as she did so her shirt lifted, exposing a band of creamy white skin. That’s it, Hasnul thought. He stepped out of the car. As he walked towards them, he could barely contain his excitement.

Hello girls, he said. The girls stopped playing and looked at him curiously.

Hi, my name is Uncle Hasnul. I’m from the Badminton Association. You know Rashid Sidek?

The girls nodded. They were cautious. Hasnul smiled.

Well, Rashid Sidek is my boss, and he’s asked me to scout around looking for future talents. I see you two are very good. How old are you?

The girls smiled. We’re ten years old, they said.

That’s wonderful! We need young talent like you two. Say, would you like to meet Rashid Sidek?

Wide smiles and enthusiastic nods. This was in the bag. They were not the first.

Well let’s say we take a ride and go see him, would you like that? Hasnul said, smiling. Hesitation. The girls looked at each other. They needed convincing.

Come on, I’ll send you back straight away. It’s not far, just ten minutes drive, Hasnul said. Rashid is waiting for me, he continued.

The girls looked at each other, shrugged sweetly and said, Okay.

“Ready?” the officer in charge motioned to the caner. The caner nodded, flexing the thick rattan cane in his hands. Hasnul heard them vaguely. His eyes were glazed, his expression void.

“TWENTY STROKES,” the officer in charge said in a loud and commanding voice. Hasnul closed his eyes.

The girls in the car, faces eager to meet a national hero. Hasnul driving, already feeling moist in his pants.

Say, why not we ask Rashid to play a game with us? I can drop my house and get racquets?

Without waiting for an answer he drove on to a house. Not his house; but a house. It was his sisters house. She wasn’t in the country. He had the keys. Normally he wouldn’t have, but it was the nearest place. He couldn’t wait anymore.

Come inside, I need to look for the racquets, Hasnul said. He glanced around and saw no neighbours around. The two girls stepped in and he closed the door behind them. He thought he had locked it.

Wait here girls, Hasnul said, Uncle wants to go get the stuff.

The girls looked a bit uneasy, but they smiled at him.

The officer in charge drew a breath. Loudly, he said, “ONE.”

Hasnul stiffened his body. In a split second he heard the cane slice through the air. There was sickening CRACK as the cane came into contact with the skin of his buttocks. He squeezed his eyes as every pain receptor in his body seemed to go off at once. The pain was monstrous, burning through the flesh and reaching to his bones. He could almost feel the tiny blood vessels beneath the skin burst.

In the house. Girls, he called from the room, Can you help Uncle with these racquets please? He was already undressed, his cock hanging stiff between his thighs. He heard the shuffle of small feet coming in from the living room. He stood behind the door, ready to spring his trap

As the girls walked into the room, he slammed the door behind him and locked it. The girls yelled and spun around. Hasnul paced forward in rapid steps and he slapped both girls hard across the face. They fell to the floor, shocked. When they saw he was naked, their eyes widened and they cowered from him.

Now, Hasnul said, his voice deeper, crueler. Now, don’t scream and don’t do anything stupid. If you do, I will kill you. I will take a pair of scissors and stick it in your necks, got it? The girls began to cry. He slapped them again. One of the girls, the Pan Asian, had her lips split from the slap.

You can cry, I like that, Hasnul said.

“TWO,” and a whip, and another lightning bolt of pain shot through his body. His buttocks trembled. He could not see it, but the rest could; the skin now had two almost parallel welts, about 8 inches long, spanning the length of the buttocks. The muscle beneath was already bruised and bleeding on the inside. The welts had faint, feathery edges where the skin was starting to tear.

“THREE!”

Hasnul gritted his teeth. He could feel a hand on his back, patting him, as if reassuring him. He found that odd. Punishment apparently came with compassion.

“FOUR!”

The cane seemed to sink into his flesh, and he felt the rattan tip swipe into the welt, trying to open a wound. The witnesses could see that the skin was not yet broken; but none of them doubted it soon will be.

In the room. Now take off your clothes, Hasnul said. The girls didn’t comply. TAKE IT OFF, Hasnul said. The girls flinched. TAKE THEM OFF OR I’LL SMASH YOUR HEADS ON THE WALL, Hasnul said.

The girls undressed, hesitantly, out of fear. As they came out of their clothes, Hasnul began to stroke himself. That’s it, he said. Lemme see them little bodies.

He moved closer towards the girls. They withdrew from him. He punched one in the jaws, the other on the chest. They fell down, crying, frightened. GET UP, Hasnul said. Come here, stand in front of me, he said as he sat on the bed. The girls were too scared to disobey; both of them now bore bruises from being hit. They stood in front of him.

He caressed their bodies with his hands, noting the absence of chest bumps. No matter, this was how he liked it. He leaned in to kiss their chests but they pulled back, so he smacked their heads together. They dropped to the floor, almost wailing but he shut them up by squeezing their faces and telling them if they so much as raised a voice, he’d cave their skulls in with a hammer.

“FIVE!!”

The cane swung fast, and hit hard. This stroke felt like a white hot knife with a serrated blade was plunged into his buttocks. Hasnul kept quiet, but his whole body was trembling. Drool slipped out between his lips, and tears started to well in his eyes.

“SIX!”

Whup! The cane struck again. He felt the tip brush against a grainy, sandy wetness and he knew that his skin was broken. A few of the witnesses started to wince. They saw what Hasnul could not. The cane had sliced open the skin of the buttocks, exposing the dermis. Blood trickled from the wound. It looked raw.

“SEVEN!!”

Hasnul’s hips jerked from the pain and the guard’s fastenings opened. “Whoa, whoa, hang on,” said one of the guards. “We need to tie him back up.” The officers began to re-secure Hasnul to the rack. He was glad for this reprieve, although he knew it would only be for a minute or two.

In the room. You, Hasnul said to the curly haired girl. On your knees. She did as she was told. She was sobbing. Suck this, Hasnul said. The girl shook her head furiously. Tears fell on his feet. DO IT! Hasnul scolded. He grabbed the girl by the hair and forced her to suck him.

The Pan Asian drew her gaze away. Hasnul rammed a hand between her thighs. She exclaimed in pain. Hasnul pushed his fingers inside and she let out a tiny shriek.

SHUT UP, he said. The girl was trying hard not to wail. Hasnul leaned forward and licked her face like a dog would lick its master. The curly haired girl had stopped. Hasnul leapt to his feet.

Lie down on the bed, he said.

“EIGHT!”

“NINE!”

“TEN”

The strokes came in even intervals. Hasnul had thought that the pain would dull with each stroke. He was dead wrong. Each time the cane slammed into his skin, it was as if there were new, fresh pain receptors just waiting to fire his body. One of the attending guards whispered into his ears, “Patience. Ten more.”

Hasnul sobbed.

They were crying in pain as he forced himself into them. He bit their shoulders hard, drawing blood. When their cries seemed to be just a little louder than he liked, he punched them in the stomach, and slapped their faces hard.

Hasnul didn’t care. Their youth was what he wanted. He toyed with their bodies as if they were dolls. He touched them here and there, and ran his tongue over them.

“ELEVEN”

“TWELVE”

The witnesses to the caning watched. Some of them were stoic, expressionless. These were the witnesses who had seen this a hundred times before. The others, of whom this was the first time, were visibly distraught. They winced and grimaced at the strokes. They were in amazement at how fragile the human skin really was. The buttocks belonging to the convict started to look like raw meat. The blood already trickled onto the cement floor. The officer announcing the number of strokes looked as grim as Death itself.

“THIRTEEN!”

“Aagh,” Hasnul exclaimed in pain. He pissed himself. His feet were stiff, frozen in their archways. Tears ran freely from his eyes. Saliva dripped from his open mouth.

“Patience, patience,” said a voice; the calm in that voice was maddening to Hasnul.

The girls huddled in a corner. Hasnul pleasuring himself, looking at their bruised and battered bodies. They were crying.

That was fun, Hasnul said and laughed. He was feeling a bit drowsy now. He had used both girls.

Now sit there while I take a breather, he said. He laughed again.

Just as he dropped his head to lay down a moment, the girls suddenly got on their feet. They were so quick. They opened the door and ran out, screaming. They were still naked.

Hasnul got to his feet but slipped and fell. He hit his head on a cupboard. He cursed out loud.

NO NO NO NO NO NO.

He ran out the bedroom just as he heard the front door being opened and the girls running out, screaming. He heard a neighbor exclaim in shock, OH MY GOD WHAT ON EART—

Hasnul ran back to the room and got dressed. He rushed. He got back in the car and slammed into the gate, forgetting that it was still closed. The girls were no where to be seen; a neighbor had probably taken them in.

“FOURTEEN!”

“FIFTEEN!”

Hasnul began to sob uncontrollably. The cane sent violent spasms up his spine.

Hasnul, stopped by a police car. Hasnul, arrested, brought to the station. ID’d, fingerprinted, locked up.

“SIXTEEN!”

Hasnul, being charged with the rape and assault of two minors.

“SEVENTEEN”

The guilt was strong now. Stronger than before.

Hasnul, in court. All evidence against him. The judge, sentencing.

You have abused your place as an adult, a protector, and you have ruined the lives of two innocent children to satisfy your demonic, animalistic needs. If there were a death penalty for this crime I would not have hesitated one second…

“EIGHTEEN!!”

The cane again. He felt wetness on his buttocks, and knew it to be blood.

Hasnul, first official night in prison. Sitting on his bunk, head in his hands.

He thought of the two little girls. Two little girls he had helped ruin. They would never be the same.

The guilt came like a tidal wave. It crashed through his conscience and his thoughts, heavy and overpowering. He sobbed. He sobbed and tears fell to the floor.

“NINETEEN”

Hasnul sobbed on the rack.

Forgive me, Ya Allah. Forgive me, children. FORGIVE ME! He had sobbed that first night in prison.

“TWENTY”

The final stroke came. It hurt just like the nineteen others before it.

FORGIVE ME! Hasnul screamed in his prison cell.

“DONE!” said the officer in charge. Hasnul wilted on the rack, energy drained through the ordeal. The prison attendants began to untie him. One of them tried to keep him calm. But as they untied him from the rack, he fell backwards and passed out.

Hasnul in the cell. Haunted by his deeds. He knew he would be caned. But he thought it would have been better to have been given death. Suddenly the thought of having to bear the guilt and sin of what he did seemed more torturous than even a million strokes of the cane.

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'Twenty' first appeared on 'Incense+Peppermints' in 2012. Republished here.