Savings

 

----

Osman, 36, is a man who believes in savings.

That is where his wealth comes from; not investments (though he had those), but from savings. In fact, he’s been amassing a nice personal fortune from his savings ever since he was a young boy. It was his father, the late Encik Johari, that had taught him the value of saving money.“You never when you might need it in the future,” his father had said. He was right too; when he died, he bequethed most of his savings to his only son, Osman. And true to his fathers teachings, Osman had used that heirloom as a cornerstone to really begin his wealth. But it had actually started much earlier.

As his father taught him to save, and save enough, Osman became very thrifty with his spending. Ever since he was old enough to count, he would deposit an amount of his pocket money every day into a piggy-bank. During Eid, while all the other kids were busy comparing how much duit raya they got and what they would spend it on, Osman would be busy calculating in his head how much money should he save, minus some necessary expenses. He never spent on anything that he didn’t absolutely have to. All throughout his school years, he would eat food prepared by his mother from home. He walked to and from school (which was luckily not too far away) even though his parents had once insisted to put him on a school bus. He would never ask for money; instead, he will ask his parents to buy him anything he needs. Three-quarters of his pocket money went into savings.

It was no surprise then when after school, he immediately took an interest in the world of banking. He devoted himself to studying how to make money and more importantly, to save it. He was not without  reason; he had paid for his tertiary education himself, using all the money he saved when he was younger. By the time he graduated, he had actually saved enough money to theoretically not need a job for a couple of years, give or take. But of course he got a job, with a reputable accounting firm, and there he made ever more money. And he saved a lot of it.

Some people say, too much.

In his few, small social circles, Osman held a reputation as being ridiculously stingy.  He never lent anyone money because he feared the person wouldn’t pay him back. He has never paid for drinks with his friends. He rides a bicycle to work because he doesn’t want to pay for fuel or transportation. Despite being wealthy, he lives in a small flat with bare bones furniture and fittings. His only source of entertainment is his computer. In a day, he only spends a maximum amount of RM15 for meals. He doesn’t go out with friends; he doesn’t go to the movies nor does he go shopping. Those were what he called ‘unneccesariums’.

It was simple really: if he didn’t need it, he wouldn’t buy it. Sometimes he does wonder what is he going to do with all his money. He wasn’t quite a millionaire yet although he believes that to be an inevitability. He supposed one day he’ll stop saving and just live the high life, even if he has no idea what that means. 

Now all of his money is safely tucked away in several bank accounts. But he has a secret; he still enjoys the feeling of putting away money into a piggy bank. He likes the tinkle of coins as they drop into the slot. In his house, he has dedicated a room which keeps under lock and key. Inside the room are shelves and shelves of piggy-banks; most were home-made, using large tins of coffee with their tops welded shut. And amazingly, Osman had the uncanny ability to remember just how much money was inside each tin. He checks them everyday just to be sure it tallied up with the running count inside his head.

Imagine then, when one day, he finds one of the tins missing. 

That was odd, he thought. Sometimes he takes a tin to deposit to a bank; but he hasn’t made a deposit in months. He would remember it if he did. Flummoxed, he browsed through the room. Still the tin couldn’t be found. He paced his house, looking for the tin. It contained RM325.00 in 50 cent coins. If the tin was missing, that was RM325.00 lost. 

Yet he couldn’t find it. After hours of searching every nook and cranny of his house and trying to remember where the tin was to no avail, he gave up and fell into an uneasy sleep, where he dreamed of drowning in a sea of coins.

************

The next day he counted the tins again; he had thought maybe he miscounted the night before (he didn’t believe this). Maybe the tin was somewhere in the room, just he missed it. But then he discovered; another tin was missing! He cursed out loud. He counted again. Yes, this time he was sure. Another tin! This time it contained RM295.50 in 50 cent coins. Again, he rummaged through the house. The two tins were nowhere to be found. Osman felt angry and irritated. This time he ransacked his house looking for the tins. He thought of going to the police but then realized it’d be folly. Besides, he didn’t want anyone else to know the room held tins full of cash. It’d raise too many questions.

Was there a thief? But how? The only way into the room was through the locked door and a window. But the door was inside and the window was padlocked. What is someone was picking the lock, sneaking in, and placing the lock in place again? It wouldn’t be too hard for an experienced thief. The question of how a thief would know he kept money was another matter. The important thing was, his tins were going missing.

That night, he refused to sleep. He wanted to know if someone was expertly sneaking into the house. But as the hours passed by, he heard nothing. No creaking sounds, no sounds of the window being opened. Confident that there wasn’t a thief, he counted his tins again just to be sure, double locked the window and door and went to sleep.

Next morning, another tin (RM301.00) went missing. Osman was furious. This time he was sure a thief was at work. Fucking asshole must have waited until he went to bed. Osman decided he was going to catch this robber. But he needed to set up a trap. He went out and bought a few surveillance cameras (while cursing, because it was an ‘un-necessarium’) that hooked up to his computer. He decided that he would sacrifice one more tin to the thief, just so he could catch him on camera and then take action the following night. He set up the cameras to cover as much of the room as possible, and the cameras have a night mode, and stayed in his room. He waited for a few hours, just watching the video feed.

At about 3.30am, as he was feeling very sleepy, he saw something from one of the cameras; it was the one facing the door from inside the room. It showed the door slowly opening. Osman rubbed his eyes. That was impossible! He had the only key! But that was what was happening – the door slowly opened, and, adding to his surprise, a small figure walked in.

The lens quality wasn’t sharp, but Osman could clearly make out it was a human; just a very small one. Osman rubbed his eyes again to be sure; he even slapped his face to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. The small human figure looked to be about 3 feet tall, and it was completely naked. Osman could see it’s dick flopping as it walked. The head was bald, and the limbs were strangely disproportionate: the arms were long and thin, but the legs were chunky and rolled in fat, like a baby’s. The figure walked in an odd skip in it’s steps; again, like a toddler. Then it came into view of another camera, this time the one facing the inside of the room, and Osman saw it pick up a tin, put it on its’ head, and walk out the door again.

What the fuck just happened? Osman thought. The figure was so small, yet had lifted the tin, heavy with coins, like it was nothing more than an empty box. Osman’s head started to ache so bad, he passed out.

The next day he spent hours about what had happened. And it wasn’t a dream: he had reviewed the recordings and they were evidence enough that it actually happened. Flustered, he finally decided to show the footage to a colleague at work.

“Fuck,” the guy said as Osman showed the video. “What the fuck?” The guy looped the video several times, as if making sure what he saw was real. He even asked Osman if the footage was rigged, or from a movie or something. Osman said no.

“I’m no expert, but I think that’s a toyol,” the guy said.

“Toyol?” Osman had heard of it before of course; what Malay hasn’t heard of the re-animated spirit of a child, green in color, used by bad men to do thievery?  He didn’t know what to make of this; he wasn’t a total skeptic, but this was strange news.

“Toyol,” said his colleague. “There’s a way to defeat this thing. But let me get back to you on it, I need to ask my uncle, he’s uh, an Ustaz. Or something. You okay with that?”

Osman would do anything to stop this toyol or whatever to stop taking his precious savings. So of course he said yes. But he wanted the solution as soon as possible because no way is the stupid thing taking any more of his money. Luckily, later that day, the guy came back to him and told him what to do.

Osman went back 50 bags of marbles (he hated paying for them). He poured out all the marbles onto the floor of his piggy-bank room. The room looked like those ball-pools at kids theme parks, only with thousands and thousands of shiny marbles. Apparently, toyols have this compulsive desire to count things, and are also attracted to shiny things and can’t survive sunlight. So if Osman flooded the room with marbles, when the toyol came, it would count them and become distracted from its real task: stealing Osmans money! And since they’re not really bright creatures, the toyol will take its time to count each marble, hopefully until the sun comes out and it is killed. His colleague had also told him that toyol are normally sent by a master; but that was an issue Osman would deal with later.

He stayed up again that night; in the cameras eerie green night-mode view, the floor of the piggy-bank room seemed to be sparkling with stars. The thousands of marbles were reflecting light from the open window at dizzying angles. Osman waited.

At around 3.30am, the same as with the night before, the door opened. Osman saw the creature skip its way in. The thing stopped, it looked surprised. Osman saw its head turn from side to side as it looked at all the marbles on the floor. It scooped up a handful of the glass items and seemed to scrutinized them in its hand, like a jeweler would look for flaws in gemstones. It dropped that handful and took another, again studying the marbles closely. Then the thing made a piroutte, like a dancer and crouched on the floor. Much to Osmans disbelief and amazement, the toyol begin counting the marbles! Osman watched as it picked up the marbles one by one, and set aside the ones already counted. Osman even had to stifle a giggle when the toyol, it seemed, kept miscounting and restarted all over again.

After an hour or so, Osman began feeling bored. The toyol kept miscounting. Osman could see on the grainy footage that the toyol was getting frustrated too. Osman just wanted to wait for sunlight to see what would happen, so he forced himself to stay awake.

Suddenly the toyol wildly began to scatter the marbles around. It took handfuls and threw them all over the room. It looked mad, pulling at its ears and hitting the floor with its chunky legs. Osman became alarmed. The thing was now pacing the room, darting from corner to corner, kicking marbles here and there. 

Then it screamed. It was blood-curdling, a shrill, pained cry. Osman saw, on the grainy footage, the creature throw back its head and scream. It got so loud Osman covered his ears. Then he saw the creature grab the doorknob, and with one forceful yank, it pulled the door off the hinges. Osman saw bits of wood debris fall. The creature went out.

Seconds later Osman heard pounding on his bedroom door. And the screams started again. Only this time it was saying something.

“MANA DUIT? MANA DUITTTTTTTTTTT?” The voice was child-like, and absolutely terrifying.

Osman went to brace the door when it burst apart in the middle. Osman was thrown across the room and landed hard. “MANA DUIT?” the scream echoed again. Osman sat up, his back sore and with splinters stuck in his forehead. The room was suddenly filled with a rank odor; the smell of putrefaction. Osman now saw, in full view, the creature before him.

The legends were wrong; it wasn’t green at all. It was an ashen grey, the color of dead skin. It still looked like a small, mishapen child. The eyes were yellow patches in the malformed head. The arms were long, ending in hands tipped with sharp bone. The creature’s jaw opened from ear to ear, revealing decayed, yellowing teeth. The tongue hung out, black, lifeless. The creature pounced on Osmans chest, knocking him back to the floor and began to wrap its hands around his neck.

“MANA DUIT?” it said again, and the stench coming from it was enough to make Osman vomit. Then, with violent force, it began to repeatedly slam Osman’s head against the floor, all while screaming MANA DUIT MANA DUIT MANA DUIT. Osman felt his scalp split and warm blood spilled. He tried to fight back, and with one huge push he shoved the creature off him. He made to run immediately, but as he got up the thing grabbed at his ankles. Osman fell and in an instant the creature was on his back. The toyol clawed at his back, ripping skin and tearing the flesh. Osman screamed in pain. With another, wild effort he pushed the creature off his back and ran.

This isn’t happening, he thought. Instinctively, he ran inside his piggy-bank room, only to realize too late that the door was no longer there. It lay beside him, on top of all the marbles. Not that the door would have kept the creature out, anyway. He heard a snarl behind him. The moment he turned, the toyol slammed into his face and slammed him to the ground. They landed on the marbles, which dug into his back.

“MANAAAAAA. DUITTTTT????”

The toyol slammed a hand into his stomach and Osman felt a huge, ripping pain. He looked down at his belly and saw the thing had pulled out his intestine. Osman screamed. The toyol’s hand seemed to dig inside him.

“MANA DUIT? TELAN DUIT? MANAAA?”

Osman, in his pain and shock, realized the creature was looking for money. 

“In the tins!!!” he screamed. Instantly, the creature got off him. Weakened now by the bleeding, and acutely aware that his cuts had been pulled out through a hole in his stomach, Osman turned to see the creature. It was choosing the tins, realizing they had been there all along before it was distracted by its rage over the marble counting. The creature then grabbed a tin (Osman could still remember this one contained RM340.00).

“It’s my money!!!” Osman shouted, suddenly enraged that this thing was still robbing him. He got up, using whatever adrenaline was coursing through his veins. The creature was caught by surprise, but only for a moment. It screamed again and threw the tin at Osman. The tin struck him square in the head, and he felt his skull cave in from the weight of RM340 worth of coins. Osman dropped to the floor. He was losing consciousness. But he still saw the creature. It walked toward him now, eyeing him just the way a curious child eyes a new toy. 

“DUIT. DUIT,” the creature said.

“My.. my money..” Osman, even dying with a smashed skull, could only think of his savings.

“DUIT. AKU,” the toyol said, and lifted the same heavy tin, and brought it crashing down on Osman’s head with so much force, the tin split open, spilling all the coins inside on his skull. As his brain slowly began to lose function and the lights were fading from his vision and the blood seeped onto the floor, Osmans last thoughts were that where he was going, he never needed to save a single cent, ever.

-------

"I Can't Wait To Go To School!"

---

I was working when I received the telephone call from my wife.

“You have to come home now,” said my wife, who was a gentle woman by the name of Khadijah, said.

“Is something the matter?” I queried.

“It’s…” she hesitated. “It’s our son; I think he’s gotten sicker. Very much sicker.”

“What is the matter with him?” I said, alarmed.

“Just come home.”

I informed my superior, who just said “Go” without further inquiry. I rushed and hailed the first taxi I saw. Luckily it was early in the day, and traffic was not too hectic. I instructed the driver to drive as quickly as possible, telling him it was an emergency. He dutifully obliged. Still, it was quite a long way to drive from the heart of the city where I worked to the quiet village where I resided.

My palms became sweaty as I grew more anxious by the minute. I thought of my son, Faiz. He is my only child. Six years old, and a bright, happy child. His kindergarten teacher had told us that he had the potential to become a very smart boy once in school. Oh how proud we felt, my wife and I. Our boy had looked up at us and smiled, showing the gap between his two front teeth from a fall he had suffered a few days before. I had rustled his hair, and treated him to an ice cream bar when we came home.

“I can’t wait to go to school!” Faiz would say everytime he saw the older kids walk to school in their blue and white uniforms. My wife and I would look at him and smile, our hearts filled with love for our boy. In a few months Faiz would start Standard One. They grow up so fast! It seems like just yesterday that I held his tiny body in my arms at the government hospital he was born at. Now he was already going to be a schoolboy.

I loved Faiz dearly. He was a splitting image of me, and had that same naughty streak in him. I played with Faiz at every opportunity that I could, which, I’m ashamed to admit, is not that very often as I work day and night. But if I could have even five minutes a day with him, I made sure I would, even if it’s just to tell him a Sang Kancil story.

A few days ago he had become very ill. He started vomiting, became pale and lost appetite. My wife insisted it had to be something he ate, and told me not to worry and just go to work.

As the taxi neared the village, I wondered what was wrong with him that my wife would call me at work. Khadijah normally handled most domestic situations on her own while I earned bread for the family. This must be a serious situation.

When the taxi dropped me off, I saw that a small crowd of people had gathered in front of my house. My heart sank; that could only mean one thing. As if to confirm my fears, I saw my wife slumped beside our next door neighbor. She was sobbing. I went to her. She flung herself at me as I approached her, and buried her face in my chest.

“Faiz is gone… Faiz is gone!” she wailed. I hugged my wife tightly. Her words rang in my ears until they became a distant hum. I looked at the people around me, and all of them bowed their heads in grief, offering a silent prayer for us.

My son is dead.

With a heavy heart I made all the necessary calls; the police, who verified a death had occurred. To the masjid folk, so they could come assist with the funeral. And of course, to our family members. They arrived within a couple of hours. All of them offered their condolences, and some gave us a token amount of money to help ‘ease the passing’. I accepted quietly.

I was trying hard not to weep for my boy, and only shed tears when I, and some other relatives, bathed him one last time before we wrapped him in the customary white shroud.

“Patience, Malik, it is Him from whence we came, and it is to Him that we return to,” said my cousin in his attempt to console me. I accepted, gratefully.

“You seem to be very strong,” said another relative. “Sabar yea.”

“Oh,” I replied. “I have to be, for my wife. And this is Fate, His will. I am redha with His divine plans.”

A little after 5pm, we buried our son at the Muslim cemetery. Soon after, the relatives and well-wishers began to dissipate, and left me and my wife to mourn on our own.

That night, both of us were quiet. My wife wept in intervals. Amazingly though, she still managed to keep it together enough to prepare dinner for us, and to clean the house. My heart went out to her, as I watched her cook and sweep with tears flowing from her eyes. After dinner, both of us had went to the small room of our small wooden house where Faiz used to sleep. We cleaned his toys and stored his books (there were plenty; coloring books, word books, story books) into the cupboard. We sifted through his faded clothes. The most colorful item of clothing was a baju melayu Khadijah had sewn by hand for Hari Raya last year.

Khadijah and I smiled looking at that baju, as we remembered how cheeky and cute Faiz had looked like in his baju melayu, which had shortened sleeves because Khadijah had run out of cloth.

That memory made us laugh, then Khadijah cried again. We finished cleaning Faiz’s room in silence.

Before we went to bed, we attempted to make love. But after half an hour, we both knew we didn’t have it in us to actually do it. I couldn’t get it up and she was as dry as sandpaper. We stopped trying. Khadijah kissed my cheek, told me she loved me and thanked me for being strong in this time of sadness. She fell asleep almost as soon as she laid her head on her pillow.

I lay awake for longer.

I thought of my son, and how bright and happy he was. I thought about the praises heaped on him by his kindergarten teacher. I thought of Faiz’s lovely face, and his infectious laughter. I shed a small tear. I silently thanked Faiz for never once

complaining that his clothes were faded and tattered and most of them were bought from the bundle store or donated by relatives. I thanked Faiz for not wanting a toy everytime we went to a shop, or at least, not wanting those original toys. He never once complained about having to eat white rice and fried eggs everyday. I thanked him, too, for never once comparing why the other kids at kindergarten had nice new pencil-cases and bag-packs while he only carried a loose supermarket paper-bag and short pencils.

You see, we were very poor. We had Faiz out of wedlock when we were only fifteen years old. Our families disowned us completely (they hadn’t even come to the funeral). Sixteen years old, we were on our own. I worked odd jobs, part-timing here and there. I was lucky to bring back RM600 a month, half of which went to rent. But somehow, Khadijah and I managed to raise Faiz. For six years, we raised our boy from whatever money I could raise every month. We even managed to send him to a kindergarten, where he did so well!

“I can’t wait to go to school!” I heard his voice in my head. He was so excited knowing he'd start school next year. He talked about it non-stop, about how he would be nice to teachers, make lots of friends and get good marks so he can become a successful young man.

Another tear rolled down my cheeks as I realized he will never be able to go to school. School meant books, transport, fees, uniforms and a lot of other stuff. And all that stuff meant money.

So I hope you understand by now, why I had to poison him four days ago. I couldn’t afford to have a son anymore.

---

(ah, it's good to be back at A Hatred of Light)

 

TWENTY

-----

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.

-------

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