Cambodia's Killing Fields- My Releases From Hell

• Hayley Nankivell, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2014

They’re disposing of me. I don’t fit their regime. At S-21, the prison, they opened me up, sliced neatly down my chest and removed all the best parts of me: happiness, strength, personality. I didn’t fight while their greedy hands tore through me, searching for a confession that I eventually made up. My bones protrude sharply, skin sinking into the crevices between each rib, collapsing into my hollow cheeks. I’m dying. But they’re going to kill me faster.

Consciousness snatches me, pushing me into reality. A symphony of crying, moaning bodies fills the tray of the truck. We are all the same; living corpses. A girl beside me, blood knotting her hair, bags tearing at the skin beneath her eyes, crys silently. She’s only a child.
“Where are we going?” I croak. My question deepens her grief. The truck slams to a stop. The engine cuts out. The doors swing open. A line of soldiers stand outside, guns raised.
“Get up!” they yell motioning with the guns barrels. We stand. Our creaking bones grind reluctantly, but we stand. They lead us from the truck, down a path decorated with bone shards that cut our feet. We struggle to keep up with the soldiers pace.

My eyes dart sidewards, racing to identify our location. Soldiers everywhere, scattered buildings, and endless fields. Speakers hide in the trees, attempting to cover the screaming with their upbeat tunes. The soldiers yell and we cry. I feel like I’m observing the madness as a third person, disconnected from the shouts and screams; from the hysterical muttering and sharp orders. And all this time death surrounds us. It clouds the air and pushes us towards pits filled with half-naked bodies. Before I know it my toes are hanging over the edge of a pit while I stare down at my fate. We are undignified animals, while the soldiers play the roles of poachers, sizing us up.

Bang!
A body thumps into the pit, bleeding over those already dead.
Bang!
Bang!
I watch an old man fall. His spectacles crack and I think of my Dad. Next is a little boy, his bouncy hair flopping over his eyes. His body just crumples. My brother. An old woman, her spindly hair shining like my grandmother’s looks to the sky, her hands locked in prayer. Five more people are going to die before me. I can’t watch. I can’t mould their faces into the ones I love. I will not spend my last thirty seconds torturing myself with my imagination.
Bang!
I fight to block out the surrounding Hell. My eyes lock onto the soldier; the executioner. His uniform is perfect. Not a single stain, not a crease or badge out of place. His eyes meet mine. They’re streaked with vengeance, lacking humanity. The gun points at my heart.
“Shoot,” I yell.