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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.
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