It is that time of the day when the children emerge from their stifling primary school classrooms into the playground. Laughing, happy words tumble from their mouths. As always, Min is waiting by the window. She’s grown tall enough to reach the coatings of dust on the highest glass louvres despite her mind being frozen at a younger age than those exuberant creatures in their navy-blue pinafores and white shirts.
Min’s hungry eyes follow the girl who reaches the swing first. Squealing, the victor kicks off into flight. Her legs are stretched rubber bands, her long black hair unfurled ribbons.
Min jams a fist into her mouth, bottling her cries like a cork. Her chest suddenly throbs with a desire so urgent that her other hand goes limp, releasing the newly cleaned bowl. It falls, smashing into jagged shards and shattering the sepulchral silence.
This time, Miss Hew’s words are mere reverberations in Min’s head, yet so real she can taste the bitter venom dripping from each syllable.
“YOU BODOH!* YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING BITCH!”
The shaking starts, unconsciously, uncontrollably, as warm trickles run along the insides of Min’s thighs. A yellow puddle pools at her feet. Min’s eyes widen in horror. No! She’s made another mess!
Lurching into the kitchen, Min jerks open the broom closet, only to recoil, gagging, at the two-day-old, crumpled body folded inside. The memory returns like a recurring nightmare. Min sees Miss Hew in slow motion; tripping, screeching, falling from the top of the stairs, her body cracking, breaking, snapping like dry chicken bones, the keys slipping, tumbling, clattering from her pocket. The keys still lie on the parquet floor, winking a sly invitation. Take us, they whisper. Go on, they cajole. Come, the swinging girl calls.
Min’s hands tremble under the weight of the tangled mess of metal. She has never done it before herself, but she has watched Miss Hew enough times to know how the keys work: the small flat unclicks the padlock, the long brass unlatches the metal grill, the big silver unlocks the wooden front door.
Min hesitates, blinking, unbelieving. The cement driveway, baked all afternoon by the unrelenting Malaysian sun, smolders under her bare feet. She stumbles out without even a backwards glance at the double-story house she’s never been allowed to leave. The empty swing waits for her, beckoning as a mother with outstretched arms.
Min is now the flying girl.
Laughing.
Crying.
Free.
*Bodoh (Malay): Stupid.
Maureen Tai is an award-winning, Hong Kong based Malaysian writer who has published creative works in literary and online magazines such as Cha, the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Kyoto Journal, Mekong Review, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, Coffee and Conversations, and Porch Lit Magazine, as well as in local and international anthologies. Primarily writing for children and teens, she has published short stories for children with Oxford University Press and Marshall Cavendish (Asia). Maureen’s work and book reviews can be found at www.maureentai.com.
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