Free Never Fall Down: A Novel by Patricia McCormick

him eating grass.
    “Don’t do this,” I tell him. “They will kill you.”
    He smile like he crazy, his mouth green like grass. I bring him back to bed.
    The next morning, again, he sleep like dead, like ghost. I say he is sick again.
    “He not sick,” says the Khmer Rouge. “He lazy. Kill him.”
    I beg him. “No, please don’t.” I don’t know why. You can’t say “please” to the Khmer Rouge, but I do.
     
    The next night I can’t sleep. Too much kid screaming, too much kid crying and moaning. And I don’t know if this is my dream or this is real. I look around for the wandering boy and he’s gone.
    I look for him everywhere. By the side of the hut, in the kitchen. I see a light, a small light, in the mango grove. A bad smell there, and sometimes the bodies get bloat and blow up and pop out of the ground. I’m scared of that place, scared of ghost, but I go anyway.
    And I see the wandering boy. I see him crouching, holding arm of a dead guy, chewing. I don’t know how long he been doing that, eating the flesh, the human flesh; but now I know why he always asleep in the morning.
     
    The next day, the Khmer Rouge say rice is missing in the kitchen, and they accuse this boy. Today I am too tire to say please.
    They tie him and hit him. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry because he have no feelings now. He a ghost already.
    I let him die. Because now I’m a ghost myself.
     
    New job for me. Not cook. Now I go with one other kid each night to the mango grove. We walk with the prisoner. At the mango grove, me and one other boy, we take the clothes off prisoner before the killing. I don’t know why we take the clothes. Maybe to use again.
    The prisoner, mostly men, but sometimes also women and also children, sometime they yell at me. Sometime they beg. Most time they stay quiet.
    They kneel down, and the leader in the white shorts, he hit them with the ax. Then me and the other boy, we push them into the grave.
    Sometime he hit a person once and they not die, but he says, “Bury them anyway.” Sometime the people swear at me from the ground.
    After, I hear them in my head. I hear them all the time.
     
    Sometime I practice music with my eyes closed. I go away then, like to heaven, it’s so quiet. In that moment I escape. Like floating above the earth, like cloud. Like not even having a body, only being a sound myself. I ride the wind up and down, sunshine sparkle on me, wind tickle me, lift me higher, higher, till no thought in my head, only music.
    Then I open my eyes and come back. To smell of shit. And blood. And dead bodies. And fear. Always fear.
     
    So much pain in my stomach tonight, I can’t make it all the way to the latrine. I have to stop next to the pond. I sit on my heels and wait for the shit to come, but nothing. Not water. Just pain.
    I hear running now and a guy coming close, saying, “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.” This guy is coming toward me, closer and closer, running away from the Khmer Rouge. The soldier chasing this guy, they shoot at him; they shoot everywhere. It’s dark and everyone wearing black, and I think maybe they can’t see me. They will shoot me if they think I’m the running-away guy. They will shoot me if they can’t see me. They will shoot me for no reason.
    I expect it now. I expect to be kill. It’s all dark, but I can see the gunshot flash white. They shoot everywhere— bang! —like crazy. I see the water close to me blowing up. I hear a soft sound now, a wet sound, bullet stopping in flesh. The guy run straight to me and falls down. Right on top of me.
    So this dead guy, this guy on top of me, he save me.
     
    The Khmer Rouge, they kill whatever they hate. Sometime, even, they hate each other. They suspect always that someone is no good, and so they test, they ask questions, like trick. “Do you love Angka? More than your brother? Then tell us if your brother is bad. Tell us if you see him be lazy or steal food.” You say no, they kill you.