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(Baonghean)In a correctional facility in TH, a northern province, a young inmate, upon learning that a female reporter who had come to investigate and write an article at the facility spoke with a Nghe An accent, expressed his desire to speak with her. He asked the reporter to pass a photograph to an acquaintance and honestly recounted his story…

She asked why I was here? It all started that April afternoon when I ran away from home. Before that, a friend from Nghe An province had invited me to join him in his drug habit. Back in Hanoi, he and I had both been lured into becoming drug users. We rented a small room near a student dorm in Cua Lo. Every day, besides hanging out and using drugs, we took on other illegal activities, and worst of all, to ease our cravings, we resorted to theft and robbery.

That day, with our pockets empty, we cruised around the streets during rush hour. No opportunity arose. Then, as dusk fell, we spotted two women riding a scooter, engrossed in conversation, the passenger clutching a bag across her chest. We immediately followed. The moment arrived; my friend accelerated, pulled alongside, and I skillfully snatched the bag from the passenger. Their scooter swerved and fell to the ground with a muffled cry. I glanced back. The road was deserted; the scooter had fallen, there was no shouting, and I had safely "stolen the goods." The first thing I did was turn off the two phones in the bag, remove the SIM cards, and throw them away. After that, we circled around and counted our loot at a cemetery. Handbags, documents, notebooks… it was best to get rid of them quickly. Just the wallet in my hand. This is my ID card, throw it away. This is a bank card, it's worthless to us. Nearly 2 million dong in cash, including small bills, neatly folded and kept in a separate compartment – ​​this is the most important thing, of course, I put it in my pocket. There are two small photos; for some reason, I also put them in my pants pocket…

Illustration: Hong Toai

That evening, after a night of heavy drinking, I suddenly felt a photograph in my pocket. I pulled it out to look at it. The first photograph was of a little girl with sparse hair and a cute smile. Perhaps it was the daughter of the woman whose handbag I had snatched. The second photograph was black and white. And I couldn't believe my eyes when I looked at it… Could it be…? How could it look so much like my own picture! But it was clearly my picture hanging on the wall at home, back in my hometown. I turned the photograph over, and saw the student's handwriting: "Remembering you forever, Khai, Lan's son. Vinh Phu, 1992." In the picture, a six-year-old boy, that was me, with big, round, dark eyes, was standing next to the older sister I was grateful to and had been searching for all this time.

She was the daughter of a colleague of my mother's. I was stunned. Thuy. Oh my God, could it be that Thuy was the one whose handbag I, Khai, and Lan's son, had snatched? I hope it wasn't her! I wonder if our victim is alright? A sudden fear surged through my mind. Like a madman, I sped out onto the road. I went back the way we had been that afternoon. I searched the corner where I had robbed the two women. There was no trace, only the occasional car whizzing by. I searched the cemetery, hoping to find the documents in the handbag I had thrown away one by one. Where were they? The things I had thrown away? In the dim light of my phone, and the desolate, cold wind, after a long search, all I found was a motorbike driver's license in Thuy's name. The ground beneath my feet felt like it was collapsing. How could I be so wretched???

For so long, I've forgotten myself. Forgotten the past, forgotten my sins, forgotten my remorse. For so long, I've only known how to live through each day with my medication, thinking that having the medicine was enough… I looked around the cemetery. It was I who should be buried here. For so many years, I've lived to cause suffering to my loved ones. For so many years, why is it only now that I have a moment to reflect?

Once I had calmed down, I went back to my room. The next morning, I told my friend, "No matter what, you have to find out for me if the person who was injured yesterday afternoon is alright." My friend looked at me in surprise: "What's wrong with you today?" My teacher insisted, so he went to investigate, giving in to my request. When he returned, he said, "I asked around, and they said someone was taken to the hospital. It's probably not serious."

In the following days, I stayed locked in bed, lying there endlessly. And strangely, I cried. It had been a long time since I'd cried, only "acting" in front of my mother. I remembered the old days and my memories with Thuy – a memory I could never forget. It was the summer of 1992. Thuy was from Ha Tay, visiting her father's unit in Vinh Yen. I was very close to her because she was so kind and indulgent towards children like me. That year, I was preparing to start first grade. She was five years older than me, so she often taught me to read and write whenever she had free time. That day, I insisted that she play pretend war and pick flowers by the pond for me (the large pond that my mother's unit was right next to). Thuy insisted that I shouldn't go near the pond, saying it was dangerous. But I didn't listen and showed my anger towards her. She begged me to go home, but I refused, so she left. After a while, probably feeling uneasy, she ran out to check on me. Unexpectedly, that's when she saw me struggling in the water. I only heard her scream, then she ran frantically to the shore. At that time, the apartment complex was deserted because it was rush hour. Having no other choice, she waded in, managed to break off a branch of a mimosa plant and throw it towards me for me to grab onto. She tried to pull me towards her, but the branch was very small and had many painful thorns. Luckily, at that moment, a small fishing boat on the lagoon, hearing her cries, swam over. We were pulled out, soaking wet and trembling with extreme fear…

After that unforgettable experience, my mother and my sister's father decided to take the two of us to the town's photo studio to have a picture taken as a keepsake. My family still keeps that photo, still hanging in the shared photo frame in our house…

A few years later, Thuy's father requested early retirement. He returned to his hometown, and my family lost contact with him. Much later, I learned that Thuy had married someone in Nghe An. That's all we knew about her…

After days of reflection, I picked up the phone and called my mother. She sobbed on the phone, saying she had withered away because of my silence. I said, "Mom, I'm coming home. When I get back, remember to send me to rehab. I'm an unfilial child, a sinner. I shouldn't be alive anymore." My mother said that just the fact I said that was the truth was a priceless gift to her. She said she would wait for me to come back, she would wait for me to start over…

And I'm here now. Believe it or not, there are things that are hard to explain, but now I'm back to being Khai, not someone who wants to forget the past.

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