The Last Apsara
By Daniel Obispo Desembrana
Chapter 1: Day to Die
Gods or deities are subject to anger, jealousy, hatred, vengeance, craving, greed, delusion, and death. – according to Theravada teachings
The hooded men open fire with UZI’s from behind the pimped out Hummer. The bullets send him flying off his motorbike and three meters into a lotus pond. Visal slams on his back, sinks, dyeing red the murky water. He closes his eyes, dies and sleeps on peacefully in his black leather jacket. In his dream, he always dies. No matter how happy the dream starts, somehow it ends with him getting killed. He has gotten used to it, it is no longer a nightmare. In fact, he only waits for his death so he can truly sleep.
The dawn quickly comes and finds Visal snoring. The only window is open and lets in slivers of light hitting his eyes. He blinks awake up from his death. He immediately senses two black shadows in his room. He is not afraid. He has been expecting them since he gave up looking for his parents. The shadows disappear instantly, too quickly before he can think of something to ask. He has so many things to ask them, yet he finds none at the moment. He will be eighteen next week. Sitting up, he feels a waft of sadness and regret as he wont be here to celebrate with his gang of misfits, mostly children, orphans like him, now his only family. He never knew who his real family was. A motodub driver found a baby among the vegetable refuse at the central market and decided to drop him at the nearest orphanage. He stayed there until he was old enough to go off with one of the staff’s bicycle to look for his parents. To survive, he begged, slaved and got sold to pedophiles. But his quest was fruitless so he became a gangster to get back at the man who sodomized him when he was twelve. He got him drunk, put him in cyclo (rickshaw) and threw him into the strong currents of Tonle Sap river at the height of the water festival. Death has sent his messengers. His real death waits. He feels it in the chilly December breeze from the open window facing the meeting point of the Tonle Sap and the Mekong River. Anyway, he has already prepared for the next life. He gives to the homeless, the street children, sickly hookers and starving substance addicts, most of his loot from robbing those he considers rich and evil.
Today is full payment. He pulls out the black thrash bag full of money from under the bed and gets enough for himself. If his feelings are right, he doesn’t need much at all. He puts the bulk of the money in his backpack. “This one’s for the monks at Kulen.” Kulen mountain has a pagoda surrounded by serene nature. He always goes there whenever he has an urge to end his miserable lonely life.
Visal looks at his room for the last time. It’s nearly ten, the earliest he has waken up since leaving the orphanage. His room lies deep in the recesses of a condemned housing row locals call “the building” in Phsar Kapkor designed by the modernist Cambodian architect Van Molyvan, who had designed every famous building and landmarks in Cambodia, including the Independence Monument, Olympic Stadium and the now fire-gutted Theatre for the Performing Arts. This building was meant for civil servants until civil war between Royalist party and the Cambodian People’s Party left it to rot without basic utilities. Only the desperate poor, migrants to the city, had the resourcefulness and determination to live in it. Now, the long slim tenement looks like a ghastly beast that sprung from hell and the residents there, just ticks and flea. He slings on the backpack, locks his room and navigates in the dark corridors among society’s trash and to the ground three floors below. He tips the kids guarding his newly acquired motorbike, a 650cc Honda Hornet, repainted black and re-plated. It is powerful and quiet enough, perfect for ambushing the unsuspecting obscenely wealthy and getting lost in the urban chaos of Phnom Penh. He has donated his trusty Honda Benly to a jobless man last night. Anyway, the police already identified that bike. If he goes down today, he wants to go in modern style, not retro. He straps the bag at the back and puts on his crash helmet. He emerges from the dark belly of the beast and on to the usual Phnom Penh traffic, a riot of used Toyota Camrys, Honda scooters, tuktuks and biycles. The sky starts to be overcast like a storm brewing. Not a good sign at all. He utters a little supplication to whoever is up there to allow him to at least reach his destination. Lightning and thunderclap answer his prayer. “Thank you!” exasperated.
Gods or deities are subject to anger, jealousy, hatred, vengeance, craving, greed, delusion, and death. – according to Theravada teachings
The hooded men open fire with UZI’s from behind the pimped out Hummer. The bullets send him flying off his motorbike and three meters into a lotus pond. Visal slams on his back, sinks, dyeing red the murky water. He closes his eyes, dies and sleeps on peacefully in his black leather jacket. In his dream, he always dies. No matter how happy the dream starts, somehow it ends with him getting killed. He has gotten used to it, it is no longer a nightmare. In fact, he only waits for his death so he can truly sleep.
The dawn quickly comes and finds Visal snoring. The only window is open and lets in slivers of light hitting his eyes. He blinks awake up from his death. He immediately senses two black shadows in his room. He is not afraid. He has been expecting them since he gave up looking for his parents. The shadows disappear instantly, too quickly before he can think of something to ask. He has so many things to ask them, yet he finds none at the moment. He will be eighteen next week. Sitting up, he feels a waft of sadness and regret as he wont be here to celebrate with his gang of misfits, mostly children, orphans like him, now his only family. He never knew who his real family was. A motodub driver found a baby among the vegetable refuse at the central market and decided to drop him at the nearest orphanage. He stayed there until he was old enough to go off with one of the staff’s bicycle to look for his parents. To survive, he begged, slaved and got sold to pedophiles. But his quest was fruitless so he became a gangster to get back at the man who sodomized him when he was twelve. He got him drunk, put him in cyclo (rickshaw) and threw him into the strong currents of Tonle Sap river at the height of the water festival. Death has sent his messengers. His real death waits. He feels it in the chilly December breeze from the open window facing the meeting point of the Tonle Sap and the Mekong River. Anyway, he has already prepared for the next life. He gives to the homeless, the street children, sickly hookers and starving substance addicts, most of his loot from robbing those he considers rich and evil.
Today is full payment. He pulls out the black thrash bag full of money from under the bed and gets enough for himself. If his feelings are right, he doesn’t need much at all. He puts the bulk of the money in his backpack. “This one’s for the monks at Kulen.” Kulen mountain has a pagoda surrounded by serene nature. He always goes there whenever he has an urge to end his miserable lonely life.
Visal looks at his room for the last time. It’s nearly ten, the earliest he has waken up since leaving the orphanage. His room lies deep in the recesses of a condemned housing row locals call “the building” in Phsar Kapkor designed by the modernist Cambodian architect Van Molyvan, who had designed every famous building and landmarks in Cambodia, including the Independence Monument, Olympic Stadium and the now fire-gutted Theatre for the Performing Arts. This building was meant for civil servants until civil war between Royalist party and the Cambodian People’s Party left it to rot without basic utilities. Only the desperate poor, migrants to the city, had the resourcefulness and determination to live in it. Now, the long slim tenement looks like a ghastly beast that sprung from hell and the residents there, just ticks and flea. He slings on the backpack, locks his room and navigates in the dark corridors among society’s trash and to the ground three floors below. He tips the kids guarding his newly acquired motorbike, a 650cc Honda Hornet, repainted black and re-plated. It is powerful and quiet enough, perfect for ambushing the unsuspecting obscenely wealthy and getting lost in the urban chaos of Phnom Penh. He has donated his trusty Honda Benly to a jobless man last night. Anyway, the police already identified that bike. If he goes down today, he wants to go in modern style, not retro. He straps the bag at the back and puts on his crash helmet. He emerges from the dark belly of the beast and on to the usual Phnom Penh traffic, a riot of used Toyota Camrys, Honda scooters, tuktuks and biycles. The sky starts to be overcast like a storm brewing. Not a good sign at all. He utters a little supplication to whoever is up there to allow him to at least reach his destination. Lightning and thunderclap answer his prayer. “Thank you!” exasperated.