His chest rose and fell, breath heavy and trembling as if he were trying to swallow the pain of the whole world.
I heard him breathe, a small whisper, like wind. Then a hot drop fell on my shoulder, whether rain or a tear, I could not tell.
He said nothing, only held me tighter. His hand dug into my back; his nails bit the skin until they bled. Red spread over flesh without a sound, only the helplessness oozing blood in the silence.
I clutched that hand, trembling, feeling its warmth mixed with the metallic tang of blood. I didn't know what to say, only to hold him as if I were holding the last warmth left in the world.
Incense smoke rose slowly above Thien Trang's altar. Her photograph blurred in the lamplight, her innocent eyes looking down at us.
Quiet and sorrowful.
I whispered, "Nhat Nam…"
He did not answer; he bowed his head against my shoulder, silent for a long while, then his voice came out strangled, barely a sound:"I'm sorry, Mai An. I'm useless."
I broke down, clinging to him. My hands shook as I gripped his broad, fragile shoulders, afraid that if I let go he would dissolve in the incense smoke.
That night the room was still, save for breath and heartbeats and the faint scent of incense fading on the air.
Outside, Hanoi stayed cold. Inside, two small people clung to one another amid wounds that would never heal and a love torn before it was ever spoken.
I stayed in his arms, a fragile heat in a world grown too cold. He did not sleep. I felt his heart race under my cheek, touching the fresh hurts in me without a single word.
Then the banging came a hard knock, then another, louder, more violent.He sprang up and pulled me behind him. The lamp flared. Voices outside shouted, sticks hammered at the wooden door:"You dog which bastard are you hiding? Come out!"
He grabbed my hand and hissed, "Run, Mai An!"
Before I understood, the door burst in. Three or four figures poured through. The stench of liquor, cigarettes, and blood in their eyes suffocated me.
He rushed forward to shield me, shouted once and took a blow to the head. Blood spattered the wall.
I screamed as they hauled me back and clamped a hand over my mouth. Fists and feet rained down, bodies thudded to the floor, wooden batons struck, heavy and wet.
He kept trying to protect me though his body went limp. Blood streamed down his face.
One of them pressed a blade to his voice and snarled, "You bitch, your mother wanted you taught a lesson about messing with her men."
I screamed until my tears mixed with the metallic smell. He turned to me; even with blood running from one side of his face, he forced a gentle smile.
Then another strike, a snapping sound. I watched him fall. Blood soaked the boards, spreading like a dark stain.
I crawled to him and took his hand. He kept his eyes on me — one red-rimmed, blood wet along the lashes. A thin line of blood trickled down his face cold as ice.
He did not cry out or moan. He looked at me as if wanting to say something, but his mouth would not move.
I called his name through my sobs. They laughed and left, leaving the house in ruins and him lying motionless.
The lamp guttered out. Rain returned to drum on the broken roof. In that dark, a single tear rolled down his face, whether of pain or farewell, I could not tell.
End of Chapter 14