Heavy Rain

I woke up to the smell of my own blanket and the soft gray light coming through the curtains. I hadn't slept like that in years, deep and heavy, like a dog after a long day in the sun.

I sat at my computer for a while, then went down for breakfast.

My sister was already at the table in her school uniform, chatting and laughing with one of the maids. The moment I sat down, she stopped laughing, folded her arms, and turned her face away from me. I knew why. I had forgotten her figure.

"I'll get it for you next time," I said. "For sure. Eat your breakfast."

"You always say that." She stuck her tongue out at me and went back to her breakfast.

My father came down the stairs in his uniform, the medals on his chest catching the light from the window. He nodded to the maids, bent to scratch Poepoe behind the ears, and tugged my sister's ponytail as he passed her chair. She swatted at him, but she almost smiled. Then he sat at the head of the table, and the maids started bringing out the food.

The food in our house is always good, because our maids cook well. Still, it isn't my mother's cooking, and some mornings I notice the difference.

"Happy birthday, son," my father said flatly, unfolding his napkin. "Why were you so late last night?"

"Sorry, Dad. We were having too much fun."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're in a good mood today."

I was. I didn't say anything.

"Why don't you take your sister to school after breakfast?"

"Okay."

My sister slammed her spoon down. "Dad, he forgot my toy. He's stupid."

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking bitch," I said, and I punched her in the arm. Hard.

She screamed. One of the maids nearly dropped the teapot, then backed out of the room with her eyes on the floor.

My father stared at me, and for a moment nobody moved. My sister was holding her arm, tears running down her face, too shocked to make a sound.

"Son." His voice was low and hard, the voice he uses on the phone with his officers. "Don't you ever do that to your sister. Be patient. You're the older one."

I said nothing.

"I'll take her to school myself," he said. "You finish your breakfast and go look at your gift."

"Okay." I picked up my fork. "Next time I want a bike. I'm tired of cars."

He didn't answer.

After breakfast, I went out to the garage with Poepoe at my heels, her nails clicking on the tiles.

I opened the door. It was a car. Of course it was. Black and brand new. I looked at it for a few seconds, then closed the door and went back inside.

I lay down on the sofa and turned on the TV. I was bored, but underneath the boredom I still felt good. My whole body still felt good from last night.

The news was on. A girl's face filled the screen, blurred out, and the reporter's voice was calm and serious.

"Late last night, a young girl in her early twenties was found unconscious in a pool of blood in the restroom of a nightclub in downtown Yangon. Police say there are signs of a struggle and of strangulation. Authorities are reviewing the club's CCTV footage, but sources say the images are too unclear to identify a suspect."

I turned off the TV.

My heart was pounding again, but not the way it had been last night. I picked up my phone and opened social media, telling myself I was only going to message my friends. The first thing on my feed was the same story, with more detail this time. She was alive. She had a serious head injury, she hadn't woken up properly since, and the doctors didn't know if she ever would.

The comments were furious. People wanted a name. People wanted a face.

I had messed up.

My messages were full. Naing Oo, Kyaw Paing, even people I barely knew, all asking if I'd seen the news, if I'd been at that club, if I'd seen anything. It was everywhere now, all over the country. And if it was everywhere, then my father had seen it too.

My phone rang. It was Thura.

"Dude!" He sounded like he hadn't slept at all. "Last night was crazy. That girl I picked up, man. What about you? You okay? Some messed-up shit happened at that club after we left. Did you see?"

"Yeah. I saw the news. You want to come over?"

"Next week, bro. I'm still out. Haven't even been home yet. My mom's losing her mind." He laughed.

"What about the others?"

"They're good. Kyaw Paing and Naing Oo went home from the hotel this morning."

"Okay. See you next week."

"Later, dude."

I put the phone down on my chest and stared at the ceiling.

I hoped nobody knew it was me. I hoped she couldn't speak. And at the same time, I wanted to see her again. She was perfect for me. She had liked it. I knew she had.

"Wathone."

I hadn't heard my father come in. He was standing behind the sofa with his car keys in his hand, and my sister was waiting by the door with her school bag, holding her arm carefully against her side.

"Last night," he said. "You went to a club. Was it that one?"

"No, Dad. A different club."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I looked back.

"Okay. Take care of yourself, and don't come home late again. You've seen the news?"

"Yeah, Dad. I know. I won't be late again."

"I'm taking your sister to school. Don't forget to feed Poepoe."

"Okay."

The front door closed behind them.

I lay on the sofa with my phone and went over it again and again. The police had the CCTV, but the footage was useless. Nobody could know it was me.

Nobody except Moe. If she woke up and said my name, I was finished.

I had to find her.

I went back online and found it almost straight away: a long post with more than twelve thousand reactions. It was from her friend, the birthday girl. She wrote that her best friend had been attacked on her birthday night, beaten and maybe worse, and left on a bathroom floor. She wrote about the club staff who didn't help, the owners who wouldn't answer, and the police who didn't seem to care. Thousands of people were arguing in the comments.

At the bottom of the post was a still from the CCTV.

It was me. The picture was so dark and blurry that the face could have been anyone's. Nobody else would ever recognize it. But I knew. My shirt, my shoulders, the way I hold my head. I knew it was me.

I stared at it for a long time, tapping the tip of my nose, over and over.

Then I noticed something else. Her friend had tagged her.

One tap, and I was on her profile.

Moe Thiri Kyaw. It was her, as beautiful as I remembered. I thought about her hair and the smell of lavender, and the excitement came back so hard that my hands started shaking.

Her profile said Sanchaung. That wasn't enough, so I went back through her photos, months and then years. A café she liked, the same corner table again and again. I searched its name and found the street. And there was a photo of her on a balcony, smiling, with the building across from hers in the background and a red cord tied around one of its drainpipes.

It was a gamble, but it was enough.

I wasted no time. I put a few things in a gift box, bought flowers on the way, and drove.

It took forty minutes to get to Sanchaung, and I don't remember any of the drive. I parked near the café from her photos and walked the rest of the way.

The street was narrow and loud, motorbikes squeezing past food stalls and parked cars. I looked up at every balcony until I found it, the building with the red cord around the pipe. Hers had to be the one facing it.

I climbed the stairs with the flowers in one hand and the gift box in the other. Her boyfriend, bringing gifts. That's what anyone would see.

I knocked, and the door opened slowly. A middle-aged woman looked out at me, her eyes red and swollen, her hair pulled back carelessly.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I came to see my girlfriend. Moe."

"What?"

For a moment I thought I had the wrong place, and I just stood there looking at her.

"I didn't know she had a boyfriend," the woman said slowly.

Then I knew I was in the right place.

"What's your name, young man?"

"It's a long name. You can just call me Wathone."

She looked at the flowers, then at my face. Then she stepped aside. "Come in."

The apartment was small and hot, the curtains half drawn. There were medicine boxes on the table and a plastic bag full of hospital papers. I listened for anyone else, a husband or a brother, and heard nobody. But someone could come home at any time, so I had to be quick.

She led me down a short hall to a bedroom.

"She's here," she said, and her voice broke. "She's been like this since they found her. The hospital sent her home this morning. We couldn't pay for another night. Tomorrow we have to take her back to the doctor, and we can't even afford the medicine. It's cruel."

Moe was lying on the bed with a white bandage wrapped around her head and her eyes closed. She looked like she was sleeping.

Her mother started to cry quietly, one hand over her mouth.

"I can pay the bills," I said.

She looked up at me. "What?"

"I'll pay. All of it."

"Really? But why?"

"Because I'm her boyfriend. I want to do something good for her."

"Oh my God." She took my hand in both of hers and pressed it to her forehead. "Thank you, son. Thank you. I'll pray for you every day."

"Do you live here alone with her?"

"Yes. Her father left us when she was little."

Just the two of them. Nobody else.

I grinned. I couldn't help it. She didn't notice. She was wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist.

"Wait," she said, "let me get some tissues."

She turned and went back down the hall.

I opened the gift box and took out the hammer I had wrapped in tissue paper that morning.

I followed her quietly. She was standing at the kitchen counter with her back to me, pulling tissues from a box, still crying and still whispering thank you to herself.

I swung as hard as I could.

The sound was wet and heavy, nothing like the movies. She didn't even scream. She just dropped. I hit her again, and again, and kept going long after she had stopped moving, until there was nothing left of the back of her head that looked like a head anymore.

When I finally stood up, my arms were shaking and my breath was loud in the quiet kitchen. I was covered in her, and I felt wonderful.

I went back to the bedroom.

Moe was lying exactly as I had left her, like a sleeping princess in one of my sister's dramas, frozen in time. Finally, she was mine.

I pulled on the gloves I'd brought, leaned down, and breathed in her hair one last time. Under the hospital smell, there was still a little lavender.

Then I raised the hammer.

The first blow hit her forehead, and her eyes flew open.

She jerked awake with a sharp gasp, her whole body going stiff with shock. Her eyes went straight to me, wide and white. She knew me.

She opened her mouth to scream, but only a thin, broken sound came out. Somehow she got an elbow under herself and pushed up, swaying, blood running into her eyes from under the bandage. She was trying to get off the bed.

I hit her again. Her hands came up, weak and trembling, trying to cover her face. I hit her hands. I hit her neck and her shoulders. She rolled off the bed onto the floor and tried to crawl, one hand reaching for the doorway, and I kept going. The sound of breaking bones filled the little room, and the blood went everywhere, up the walls, across the bed, over me.

Then it was quiet.

Nobody was coming home. I was sure of that now, so I took my time.

I washed my face and hands in their tiny bathroom and went down to my car. I always keep a change of clothes in the back. I changed in the driver's seat with the windows up, and nobody on the street looked twice at me.

Then I walked down the street to the café from her photos and took a table by the window. I ordered a coffee and sat there while the street outside turned orange, then gray, then black. People came and went. Nobody looked at me. When I felt calm again, I paid and left a tip.

Then I went back into the apartment and locked the door behind me.

I laid Moe out on her bed and took the knife from my bag.

First I opened her up and pulled everything out of her. It was soft and slimy, and warmer than I expected. After a while, it bored me. So I started to skin her instead.

That took hours. I worked slowly and carefully, and I stopped to take photos, the way an artist photographs his work. When I was finished, I had what I came for in my bag: her skin, her ears, her eyes. And most important of all, her lips.

I had never been so satisfied in my life.

I was too lazy to deal with the bodies. Lucky for me, I had worn gloves for Moe. Unlucky for me, I had forgotten them for her mother. It didn't matter. Fire takes care of everything.

I piled clothes from the wardrobe onto the bed and set them alight, and I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the flames climb the curtains.

Then I left quietly, went down the stairs, and walked back to my car.

It was almost ten at night. My birthday dinner had started three hours ago, and my mother would be sitting at the table, waiting. My phone showed six missed calls, all from my father.

I called him back as I drove. He didn't answer.

Well. Anyway.

It had been a good day.

To be continued...