old wounds

Rahimah stepped out of the bathroom, wringing her hands out of habit even though they were dry. It was maghrib now, and the school was empty except for the old Indian security guard listening to his radio in the guardhouse by the main gate.

The school had not always been the elite kluster institute that it was now. It was the dumping ground for all the trouble-making students. It was a breeding pool of bullies, gangsters, thieves and liars. Sampah masyarakat, you could call them. More often than not, they came in bad, and left worse. Or, for the really unfortunate ones, didn't leave at all.

But slowly, starting with a principal with a vision of a better future, the school had shed its old skin and was now one of the top secondary schools in the state.

Rahimah turned left, towards the direction of the newly-constructed library. In the distance, she could hear a catchy Hindustan song playing on the guard's old radio.

Rahimah stopped walking. She'd suddenly heard another sound break through the general silence of the deserted school.

She cocked her head to one side, straining her ears.

There it was again: a low moan.

Eh, thought Rahimah. Siapa pulak tu? Dah senja dah ni. Takkan ada orang lagi kot.

Rahimah walked in the direction the sound was coming from. Eventually she came to a classroom not far from the surau and the old bilik sakit.

There, sitting at a desk in the middle of the class, was a boy. He was still in his school uniform and by his fair skin and straight black hair, she could tell he was Chinese.

"Dik," ventured Rahimah, stepping into the classroom. "Kenapa belum balik lagi?"

The boy was resting his forehead on the desk top. His hair fell over his face, hiding it from Rahimah's view. His arms were clamped around his stomach, as if he had a stomach ache.

The boy didn't seem to hear Rahimah's question. He was still moaning, and sniffling quietly.

"Dik," repeated Rahimah, stepping closer. "Kenapa ni? Sakit perut ke?"

The boy turned his head slowly to look at Rahimah. His nose was running and she could see the lines of dried tears on his cheeks. His eyes were red with crying.

"Sakit," he whispered hoarsely in a voice that sounded like it was more used to speaking Cantonese.

"Sakit? Mau Panadol?"

The boy shook his head.

"Mau balik rumah," he said tearily. "Saya sakit. Saya mau balik."

A lock of hair flopped onto the boy's forehead and he lifted a hand to remove it, and Rahimah saw that the front of his shirt was soaked in blood. The floor beneath his chair was shiny with a crimson puddle that smelled of iron.

The arm returned to the bleeding stomach, and the boy looked Rahimah in the eye.

"Sakit sangat," he whispered.

For the first time, Rahimah noticed that the boy's bloodshot eyes did not reflect any life. Rahimah knew that look. She'd seen it so many times already. She saw it whenever she looked into the mirror in any of the school toilets.

She nodded, and allowed a brief, understanding smile grace her tired face. She lifted her own arm and revealed a dark red patch staining the side of her green baju kurung.

"Makcik pun sakit," she said.