Miss Lien

Lien was fighting them again. Clawing at their arms, kicking her feet, pushing them away.

Go get the boy. This one is strong.

She rolled her head from one side to the other. Her skin was slick, sweat squeezing from every pore in her body, but there were still so many hands holding her down. Lien tried to focus on the ceiling. She knew it was dark cement, she remembered that from several hours earlier, but all she saw were bright blues and purples, growing lighter and lighter.

Push. Push now.

She tried to do what they said, she knew it would make the pain stop. But they still weren't satisfied. They kept wanting her to push harder. They were beginning to sound angry.

We need more sheets. It's getting slippery.

Why is all this blood coming from such a small girl?

That's probably why. Her body is still so young. It isn't prepared for this.

Little slut. All right. Let's try this again. Push. Push now.

Their voices were getting fainter. Lien tried to lift her head up to hear them better, but a rough hand pushed it back on the mat. Another gripped at her hair, pulling her head even further back, ripping several strands from her damp scalp.

Push. Push.

All she could see were the colors now. She wanted to tell them she was trying. She really was. But the only thing they could hear were her soft, shallow breaths, quieter and quieter.

The silt below Lien's feet was soft. Silky. She felt her heels, then the soles and toes sink into the soil until finally she looked down to see that the earth had swallowed her up to her ankles. Lien twisted playfully, testing her balance. The earth's grip on her was tight, secure.

Her brothers' voices rang far away. They were playing beyond their family's rice paddy, near the main road where the ground was solid enough to run on. It would take them a while to grow bored enough to come bother her. By then, her parents would be home from the market and she and her sisters would help their mother and her grandmother prepare dinner. But for now, she was alone. A slight breeze rustled the still water and cooled the sweat pooling on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, enjoying this. The oldest of seven children, Lien was hardly ever alone.

The July monsoon season had ended and for the first time in weeks the sky was clear and the sun soared high, brightening the rich green of the fields and thick shade trees. Soon they would be planting rice seedlings for a new crop. While her family's plot of land was not nearly as vast as the rich plantations farther north in the Mekong Delta, it was adequate enough to feed her grandparents, parents, her younger siblings, and Lien.

She looked to the earth. Her shadow stretched across the field, long and looming, intimidating. Since she could remember, Lien had always been impatient to grow, wanted to be as imposing as her father and grandfather. She imagined with each passing year, she would grow taller and taller until she was as lofty as the trees and could step into heaven and be with her other grandparents, her mother's parents, the ones who died before she was born. When she confided this intention to her parents - she must have been only four or so - they'd laughed.

And what will you say to them, Miss Lien? her mother asked using the family's favorite endearment for their oldest child.

I will say I am your granddaughter. I am your family. Love me.

The air was getting thick again. Lien couldn't breathe.

Mother. Turning slightly, Lien's spine curled to the cramping in her stomach.

Mother. A cool, callused hand brushed her forehead and Lien lifted her neck instinctively to the touch. But then the hand went away and was soon...