Trail of Corpses: Trauma
Shit. That’s where I’m at. That’s where my whole family and a handful of survivors are at. The end of our luck. The bottom of the barrel. With our backs against the wall. And I’m not just saying that. We’re literally up against a cliff. Everyone hanging on the tops of trees like monkeys. And all around us is death. Up the cliff, several leagues away are the communist Khmer Rouge who would rather see us dead than breathing. On the ground with tall grass spreading farther than the eye can see are hidden land mines that explode upon contact. How I know is when one of our group first tried running through the open forest. Not a minute passed before *BOOM!* followed by a man screaming for his life. Alarmed, father shouts, “Go hide in the trees and don’t make a sound!” My brothers and sisters obey, frantically scrambling up the nearest trees while I go up one alone. The sharp and rough edges cut into the soft flesh of my hand, but I don’t care to notice. Mother takes my youngest sister up along with her. Everyone else in the same situation complies without hesitation. We wait. Silently, I listen for the sounds of footsteps that signal our inevitable deaths. Seconds tick by. My breathing slows to a halt. Minutes pass. I break into cold sweat. Hours. My heightened senses drive my sanity into a breaking point. Then nothing. Nothing happens. Only the cries of a dying man can be heard in the midst of the eerie silence. As the day passes, so too do the cries end.
At the break of dawn of the following morning, presuming the area is safe, everyone climbs down and backs against the cliff. My gnawing hunger and fatigue drain me of energy to move about. However, concern for my family tends to motivate me otherwise. I get up to check on my parents and siblings. I’m relieved to see that everyone is okay. Tired and lifeless, but alive nonetheless. Father moves on to speak with the other male adults about our situation. Holding onto my brothers and sisters, I begin to think of our home lost. Of the jackfruit trees where I used to climb up and enjoy the sweet treat, despite the giant fire ants. Of the riverbank where one could simply put their hands in the water to catch a hearty fish. Of the days I used to play about between home and school. But all that came to an end once the red devils took over. Things had changed when the whispers of Pol Pot and Communism can be heard at every corner. I was told by father that our Cambodia was no longer the Cambodia we had once known. No longer were the fish and jackfruit ours to keep. No longer were we individuals, but tools to the Khmer Rouge. Our home was no longer a place to return to. Ever since then, we’ve been running. Running away from slavery: away from death. Running from men wearing masks of red devils.
Father returns to us and sits himself beside Mother. He sighs and lights a cigarette. After the smoke fades he whispers to her, “They found him and some others a few yards away. All dead. Probably by land mine.” Mother gasps and returns, “Then that means…”. “Most likely the whole area beyond here is scattered with land mines,” Father gravely answers. They remain silent for a few moments. My baby sister begins to cry, so Mother starts cradling her tenderly whispering, “Shh. Hush now.” An eternity of silence passes before Father speaks again. He tells her, “I think we’re at the border of Thailand. With luck, the local army may have heard the explosions and come to save us.” Not a chance. We’ve already been booted out of Thailand once. I doubt they’ll let us back in again. Staring down at the dirt ground, I face the inevitability of my death. If we decide to press forward, we’ll die before we realize it. If we stay here, we’ll either starve to death or the devils will find and kill us. Either way, we die. I will die. Ahahaha.
Time passes without sovereignty. Days come and go just as easily as the lives of our people. I don’t know when exactly it began, but some of the group started making attempts to cross the forest. I guess they got impatient. The stagnant days were regularly broken by explosions and screams signaling the death of yet another survivor. Gradually, the hodgepodge group of Chinese, intellectuals and victims alike begin to thin out. And with each passing of life, I begin to get accustomed to the sounds of death ringing about. That ceaseless, dreadful noise reminds me of my eventual demise. I’m numb from the constant echoing of their cries. I’m tired of living while facing death at all times. And above all else, I’m disgusted at this absurd world. I close my eyes in the wake of our living nightmare.
“It’s time for us to go,” Father speaks breaking into my despair. I look up to see a man who hasn’t yet resigned himself to death. To a man who continues to drive his mind, body and soul with sheer force of will for the sake of his family. And although his body is battered and thin to the bone, he has a look in his eyes that reminds you of a fighting beast. His order stirs a will within me. I rise and help my mother get up. Taking a look around, I can easily tell that we are the last of the survivors that have yet to move on. It’s the middle of the day and the sun is shining down through the scarce trees. Father, leading us, begins to enter the forest. Looking into every one of our eyes he commands, “Wait a moment before I tell you to come. When you do, make sure you step only where I have gone, understand?” Yes. He treads deeper into the greenish brown forest of tall grass. After a moment or two, he signals us to follow him. Slowly, we obey his every word. Careful to only step onto where the patches of grass have parted, we arrive beside Father in due time. Father looks back for a moment before turning around saying, “Follow where I go and nothing else.” At first, I didn’t understand the rationale in his words. However, soon enough I would realize exactly why he gave such an order.
First was the pungent smell. It was almost similar to how a pig’s carcass would smell like after being left out for a few weeks. But something else was mixed in there. Something much fouler. Next were the rasp sounds of breathing and splashing. Then there were the half-burnt pieces of flesh hanging about the nearby trees. Some were small black shreds. Others were almost half limbs. Last of all was the real deal. It was lying on the ground, staring into the sky with the only eye it had left. Most of the body had been blown away. The remaining half-head, neck, chest and torso were submerged in a pool of deep red blood. And despite all the missing pieces the person had, it was still living. Parts of what remain attached twitched uncontrollably. For the duration I witness it, an organ manages to wiggle out of a gaping hole in the rib. My mom covers my sister’s eyes. I retch. Ugh.
Father continued to lead us through the forest in order to escape the Khmer Rouge. After some time I realized why he decided to leave last, despite our increasing hunger and exhaustion. His intentions became quite obvious as we continued to bump into carcass after carcass. Question: where would the safest path be in a field of landmines? Answer: the areas where the mines had already been detonated. I wouldn’t call it a graveyard. That title would be far too humble for a place like this. It’s more like a memorial of our legacy. After all, we survived by treading on a trail of corpses.
