No One Sleeps in Saigon

Trận đánh (Battle)

A man picked up the baseball bat and the chorus of screams scattered to silence. The other man is still, mouth agape, knowing he should be running. Smack. The bat clumbers at a force into his skull and the chorus of screams commences once more. The bar is chaos, no not chaos. Anarchy. The soldiers turned into nothing but animals. They yell and push and punch and kick. Something red splatters my cheek. Then more. Echoes of their rage lingers in my ears. I seethe in their cries. The man with the bat is rampaging again, not being able to tell if he was drunk and angry, or angry and drunk. His words were a scramble of American curse words I do not understand, but his tone was too familiar. I notice another man having a drink at the bar with a friend, seemingly oblivious to the massacre behind him. The man with the bat seemed at the least unimpressed by his lack of participation. He strides over, brow riddled with fury. His muscle twitches and I see him raise his hand, how the bat rests above his swollen shoulder. And I, the lady who never interferes, thinks "Tôi phải giúp!"

Smack.

I wake up sometime later with seemingly a million hammers scorching my skull. Chết tiệt. I brace my eyes open to see a kind face, an American face, an enemy face. "Hey, are you doing alright?" He spoke with a southern drawl I had only ever witnessed on television. His eyes darted quickly downward, and I soon realised I was still wearing my "costume" from the night before. I quickly sit up, hands covering my body. But the room starts to spin, and I hopelessly fall back down again. "Hey, hey, take it easy. You had a hard hit." I recognise him. From the bar. I had taken his hit. I sit myself up, cautiously this time, and preserve a moment to take in my surroundings. The moon still shines casting deep, threatening shadows across the man's face and the room I recognise as the back room of the bar. "I work here, you need to leave sir." I muster my head pounding in reluctance. "No, no I need to make sure you're alright!" His floppy brown locks fall into his eyes as he says this, and I glimpse him furrow with disappointment when I turn away. "Alright, I'll go. Thankyou kindly little lady." I never see him walk away, but I know he does.

The night nears in once more and Saigon roars like a lion in the heat. I dance for the soldiers, show them my skin, because it distracts them from the shrapnel in their own, I accompany them to bed, like many friends lost. I dance for them and they give me money I cannot spend. They yell at me crude American words, cruel ones too. I wish they knew how I understood. Sometimes they say I am beautiful. Their eyes get hungrier as the night gets older and their hands start to dance with me. I fix them reluctant drinks. Whiskey after whiskey. Though I know it just makes them hungrier. I see his kind face in the crowd. An American face. A kẻ thù. He strides over to me, proud as a peacock. It entices me, this man being enticed by me, despite not receiving skin. He takes my hand, and my breath, kisses my neck, butterflies down my navel. I lead him away, fear taking a well-deserved break. Up crept his hands.

Có lẽ. Maybe just this once.