"You are never at anyone's mercy," there was something fierce in the otherwise calm man's voice. "The day you think that way is the day that I can't help you."
Type had stopped being innocent long ago, but he learned there was a difference between b...
As a child, Type understood many things, he knew that he loved football and that he preferred to play with friends than help his dad. He knew he loved his mother's cooking, especially the fish kidney curry although her sour curry was also good. He knew that Khom was his best friend and that he was terrible at hide and seek because he always giggled. He knew that being sick was horrible but in the rare cases he got sick, having his mother cuddle and sing to him made it all better. He understood that certain things were wrong like hitting others or not listening to his parents. He knew that there were bad people in the world that got in trouble for being bad.
Then there were the things that he didn't understand, like why were bad people allowed to hurt good people. He didn't understand that if he was a good boy then why did he have to be punished. His mother always taught him to always say 'please' and 'thank you.' Type didn't understand why his 'please' was ignored, or why the man smiled even as Type cried. He didn't understand why his father became so angry or why his mother kept crying even after Type stopped.
"How could that monster...?!"
"I'll kill him!"
Everything was confusing to his young mind, all he knew was that his body hurt and that the bruises made him want to throw up. That he couldn't look at himself in the mirror or be alone with his father, something that really hurt the man. That was the first time Type had seen his father cry. "He's terrified of me, that bastard made my own son scared of me!"
It all made Type feel so guilty and he didn't understand why his body would shake when the man he once looked up to and worshiped got closed. He didn't understand why in the darkness of the night by the shadow of the moon he saw that face grinning, "so pretty and soft," but when his parents came the man was never there.
Type didn't understand why everyone looked at him like he was a baby bird with a broken wing, he hated that most of all. All the neighbors figured out it was him although they didn't put his name in the articles and Type hated it. He wouldn't leave his house because he couldn't take the looks and questions.
"How is he?"
"Oh that poor boy."
"Oh dear, but it could have been worse."
He could see the relief in their eyes, they didn't care about him at all. They were interested in satisfying their curiosity, to feed the boredom that comes with living in such a small village and to make themselves feel better because compared to him their lives were great. They were all happy that it wasn't their sons or worse daughters. That was all they cared about and it made Type sick and his father furious.
Most of all he hated the way that the doctors poked and probed him like he was some experiment yet avoided his gaze as if Type was disgusting. The way they took pictures of the marks he hated so much. He hated all the people that would come to his house with cameras talking about tragedy while dressed in designer clothes. "What is wrong with you people!? It's a child! Respect his privacy!" They would glare when his mother would exclaim after Type refused to leave his closet and just cried.
"Can we talk to T?"
"We just have a few questions."
"Please, at least give us a comment!"
"Can you tell us his version of the story?"
"You want a story?!" his father would exclaim angrily. "How about this one?!" The man smirked as he flung dirty water at the reporters. Type hated it all, but most of all he hated himself for being so stupid.
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