Freckles

Longlisted in the Bedford Writing Competition

I: Anger

I’m not an angry person. I’m not. I wasn’t angry when Goh Liu Xing made fun of my freckles and stuck a beetle up my nose in second grade, nor when Farah Abdul Sharom called me a pervert in seventh grade, nor even when Lee Zil Yik beat me up behind the dumpster last year. Instead, I felt nothing: I would simply sit there calmly, a stoic look on my face, and bear the pain and their insults. I’ve never once fought back in anger, nor even thought about revenge. Certainly not. I think I’m incapable of it. 

That’s why I was so surprised when I was called into the counselor’s office for “behavioral problems.”

I sat at the counsellor’s office, watching as he rummaged through the dozens of papers on his desk. His squirrel-like hands dug through the papers, shoving them to the side and lifting them up, as he tried to find the document he was missing.

Finally, he pulled out a thin, light manila folder. He opened it casually and began skimming the files.

“Arhaa Awang?” the counselor said, his eyes roaming over the page. 

“Yes.” I answered back quietly. 

There was silence. 

“Well,” the counselor said after a few moments, “it says here that you have been living alone with your mother since you were eight. I’m guessing that’s due to the… incident with your father?”

I said nothing.

The counselor cleared his throat. “So I’m guessing there are no problems at home…?”

“No,” I answered. 

“Then what about your friends? Are you having any trouble with your friends?”

I had no friends. Perhaps only Soniia. But either way, I hadn’t been feeling very social lately. “No,” I responded. 

The counselor sighed, then looked up. “You see, Arhaa, I’m here to help you. And I can’t help you if you don’t help me. I’m trying to find out the reason why your grades have been going down lately, and I don’t want to believe it’s out of pure academic negligence. But if you have no other explanation for me, then I don’t have a choice to give that answer back to your teachers.”

Ah. So that is what this was about. 

It was pure academic negligence. I had just gotten tired of school lately. I didn’t see any point in it. It was just useless busywork until I got to university. But of course, I didn’t say anything to the counselor. I didn’t say anything. 

“Are you taking classes in the afternoon?” the counselor asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then there’s a good chance you can pass your university exams and get into university despite your grades. At this point, that’s all that matters.”

I nodded, then stood up and was dismissed. 

II: Father

I walked out of the counselor’s office, immediately touching my freckles. Being in there had reminded me of them, of the time people used to make fun of them. People didn’t comment on them anymore, but I was still insecure about them. I was used to looking at people’s smooth faces and comparing them with my own, flecked with tiny dots. I didn’t say anything about it though. 

I entered the bathroom. I began to fiercely wash my face, wishing the freckles would just fall off. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, and how much soap I applied, the freckles were still there. 

I looked up at the mirror, panting. I looked just like my father. 

The last time I saw my father I was eight years old. He told us he was going to work, but instead, he went to a convenience store and killed ten people. One of them was a child. 

The police shot him the moment he came out of the convenience store. It didn’t matter. I’m convinced he would have shot himself, anyway.

The last time I saw my father I was eight years old. I saw his hands, filled with blood, and his red, splattered shirt as they carried him into the ambulance. 

And I saw his face, with blood splattered over it as if they were freckles. For a moment, it seemed to me that he looked like me. 

I think my father was an angry person. You certainly must be, to kill nine people and a child for no reason. But the psychologists told me he was not. They said he suffered from Amok syndrome, a rare illness that was strangely prevalent here in Malaysia. Those who suffer it inexplicably lose control of themselves and go into a homicidal rage. Not much is known about the disorder, as the few who do survive it forget all about it.

My mother didn’t believe in that. She said my father was a kind, gentle man, and that he must have been possessed by the ancient spirits that controlled the amocas, the violent warriors the syndrome is named after. She said that our house was infested by spirits and had us move from Kuala Lumpur to the countryside.

I didn’t believe in my mother’s spirits, though. I didn’t believe the psychologists either. I just thought my father was an angry, cold person who had one day burst from the pressure and killed a bunch of people. 

That thought scared me, though. For at the height of his anger, I saw myself.

I touched my freckles. I looked like my father.

I continued scrubbing.

III: Soniia

My only friend, perhaps, was Soniia. She was the girl that sat in front of me in my evening classes. She had a large beauty mark covering her cheek which her hijab was unable to hide. She was, I think, the only person in that class that actually respected me. 

She never made fun of my freckles. I think she sympathized with me. Unlike the other kids, whose eyes were full of disdain and mockery, her large eyes were filled with pity and respect.  One day, I even heard her say the following to her friends:

“I would never move to Korea,” she said, turning slightly to glimpse at me. “Their skin is too smooth and perfect. It’s creepy. I prefer people with more unique skin.”

I took that as a sign of camaraderie, and so our friendship started. She would occasionally give me sheets of paper for our practice tests, and she’d always lend me her blue pencil. We’d occasionally say hello to each other when we entered the classroom, and once, she even smiled at me. I went home that day thinking repeatedly about that, about how the edges of her mouth had scrunched up and her beauty mark had seemed to shrink.

I kept thinking about inviting her out to my secret spot. I knew of a small lake that was near the school that not a lot of people knew about. I had stumbled across it once when running away from some bullies, and usually went there when I had had long days. It was a beautiful place really: when I was there, the sunsets always seemed more beautiful. It was definitely a good place to invite a girl. 

So one day, I finally got the courage to invite her. At the end of class, when I was going to give her back her pencil, I decided to smile at her. She seemed startled. 

“Soniia,” I said, my voice beginning to shake, “well, we’ve been friends for a while now, right? I was just wondering if you would like to walk with me to the lake today.”

Soniia said nothing, her small lips forming a perfect o. Her beauty mark turned bright red, as did the rest of her face. 

“Arhaa,” she began, looking down at her hands.

“Hey,” a voice said. I turned to find a boy -- I think his name was Barzin -- looking down at me. Behind him were two other boys, whose names I didn’t know. 

“Are you bothering Soniia, pervert?” Barzin said.

“He’s not doing anything,” Soniia whispered. 

“I asked you a question, pervert,” Barzin said, moving closer to me. “Are you bothering her?”

“Soniia, you should stay away from this dude,” one of the boys said. “Didn’t you know that his father’s a murderer?”

“That’s not true!” I stammered, gripping Soniia’s pencil tightly. 

“He went into a convenience store and killed a bunch of people,” Barzin said. “Are you looking for your next victim, fuckface? You like killing girls?”

“I would never do that,” I said, my arm beginning to shake. “I would never do that to Soniia.”

“Stand back, Soniia!” one of the guys said, gripping Soniia by her hijab. “Look at how his arm’s trembling. He’s probably about to go crazy right now, and kill us all.”

“Shut up,” I said, beginning to shake all over. I gripped the pencil even tighter. 

“What was that?”

“Shut up,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. I could feel the nails of my fingers digging into my palm, drawing blood.

“Look at how he’s holding the pencil, Soniia. Look. He’s planning to kill us all, probably. He probably likes killing girls, you know? Gets off on that.”

The world began to turn red. I could feel a burning, tingling sensation going up and down my arms, turning them numb. The pencil wobbled aggressively in my hand. I began to breathe heavily. I was losing control. I knew it. 

“Please,” I said gravely. “Just shut up. Just shut up. Just shut up!” 

“Stop!” Soniia suddenly yelled. “Barzin, look out! He’s dangerous!”

I glanced up, as if snapped out of a trance, then looked at Soniia.

The respect in her eyes was gone. In its place was pure fear.

IV: Freckles

It was the day of the test. I didn’t give a shit, though. I hadn’t cared about anything or talked to anyone after the incident of Soniia. I stopped going to afternoon classes, and locked myself in my room under the pretense that I was studying. I didn’t. I just did nothing. 

I sat down at my assigned desk. I saw Soniia at the edge of the room, talking quietly with one of her friends. There weren’t a lot of people in the room -- only about 10 -- so it wasn’t easy to look at someone else. 

The teachers at the front of the room ordered us all to sit down. The room quickly grew silent, and the sound of voices was replaced by that of papers being passed down. Pencils were passed to each student by the teachers. Instructions were read aloud. Then, the test began. 

I stared at the questions almost as if in a dream. Reality had become like a haze to me. I couldn’t quite concentrate, and didn’t really want to. 

I began to fill in answers to questions I didn’t know. I did so almost automatically, without thinking about it. I began to grow nervous all of a sudden. 

I tapped my pencil on the desk. And suddenly, I remembered the incident with Sonia. How I had gripped the pencil in my hand, how she had accused me of being dangerous. But I wasn’t the one that was dangerous. It was them. The other boys. It was always them. 

I looked down at my test, and the filled in black bubbles reminded me of the beetle Goh Liu Xing had put up my nose in second grade. My heart began to beat faster.  I could feel the beetles scuttling up my skin, hear the scuffling sounds of my hands as I scattered backwards into the dirt, hoping to get away. I could feel the beetle in my nose, smell its earthy scent, feel its little legs squiggling around in my nostrils as my lungs ached and I struggled to breathe, just breathe --

I started hyperventilating. In the background, the teachers began calling to me. But I could only hear the sound of my heart beating faster and faster as the memories closed in.

The beetle in second grade. The time mud was thrown in my face because of my freckles in third grade. Being called potato face in fifth grade. Having my face stretched out with tweezers in sixth grade. Being called a pervert in seventh grade. Being dunked in the bathroom toilet in ninth grade. Being beat up last year for no reason. Being called a murderer by those boys, by Soniia --

My heart was pounding quickly in my chest, and I was gripping the pencil tightly. It was all other people’s fault. It had always been other people’s fault. And I had never done anything to stand up for myself. How unfair. I didn’t deserve this. I had never deserved this. I was just trying to be good, but the world wouldn’t let me. I tried to show them kindness, and they only spat back hatred. They deserved to pay. They deserved to die. And all of a sudden I couldn’t help but feel angry, so fucking angry-- 

***

I woke up next to the lake. 

The first thing that hit me was the smell. That strange, metallic smell that oozed off of me. I looked down at my hands. I was holding a bloody knife. 

I dropped it, startled, and rushed to the lake. Reflected on the water’s surface, I saw myself, covered in blood. I knew it was too much blood to be my own.

Blood was splattered all over my face like freckles. 

I stood up, pacing in a panic. I had no idea what had happened. What had I done? What had I done to my peers? What had I done to Soniia?

The police hadn’t found me. I must have run off. Had the bodies been found yet? Did they suspect me?

I knelt down on the grass, breathing heavily. Then, my hands trembling, I took the knife. 

And as the tears fell down my face and were lost in the ever-growing puddle of blood, I wondered if I was crying because of what I had become or because of the lies I had told myself.