My Ex-Convict: The Map On His Skin

CHAPTER 1 The concrete floor was cold. Khem sat on it, back against the wall, sleeves pulled down to his wrists. Habit. Even after thirteen years, he still hid. "Khemthat Rattanapong!" His head snapped up. The steel door clanged. The warden stood there with keys. "Get up. You have a visitor." Khem frowned. Visitor? Jot had came this morning. No one else came. Not for thirteen years. He stood slowly. Old habit again — he held his wrists out together in front of him, waiting for the cuffs. The metal clicked cold around his skin. The hallway to the visiting room was too bright. His eyes hurt. Fah was already inside. Glasses low on his nose, sleeves neatly folded, reading through a thick file. He looked too clean for this place. Too new. The door opened. Fah looked up. His eyes studied Khem. Khem walked in — tall, shoulders broad from prison work, skin marked white and brown. Their eyes met for one second. Khem looked away first, fast. Shy. Ashamed. He's staring at the patches, Khem thought. Of course he is. Fah didn't realize he was staring until Khem flinched. Shit. He cleared his throat. Trying to compose himself. "Nice to see you again, Mr Khemthat Rattanapong" Khem nodded slowly. "You may sit down Mr Khem" Khem sat slowly, then adjusted his sleeves to cover a quarter of his hands. "Thank you" Fah swallowed. "I'm Fahkrit Theerawit, I didn't get to introduce myself the last time I was here. I am happy to tell you that tomorrow you will be a free man. Please sign here". Khem looked at this man cracking an unfunny joke in front of him. Fah pushed the papers and the pen in front of him. "Mr Khemthat please sign the papers" He kept his tone professional and sharp. "I will be a free man? How?" He was speaking to himself but his hoarse voice made what he said audible enough for Fah. "You were falsely convicted 13 years ago. You were young, high school kid and absolutely had no business in benefitting from your father's death. But back then it was a 19 years old's voice against your mother's voice who just lost her husband" Khem was listening to him attentively while looking down. He never makes eye contact no matter what. He took the pen slowly and wrote down the signature on the paper. He didn't want to get ahead of himself and become happy. He can't trust this guy. He did come a month ago with his friend Jot and said he will help him get out of prison, but he didn't think this will happen. "Thank you Mr Khem, congratulations on being a free man" Fah said packing the papers away. * The heavy steel gate groaned open. Khem walked slowly toward the exit of the prison, like he was afraid the outside world might disappear if he moved too fast. Long-sleeved light blue t-shirt hanging loose on his thinner frame, old jeans, cheap white sneakers. His hair was longer. His eyes hadn't adjusted to how bright everything was. Outside, leaning against a black sedan with one ankle crossed over the other, was Jot. A cigarette burned between his fingers. He was scanning the prison wall with a bored, restless look — until the gate moved. Until he saw him. Jot froze. Khem raised an arm over his eyes, wincing at the sun. The light fell harsh across his face, across his forearm — catching the pale patches of his vitiligo, stark and unhidden. Jot dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. "Welcome to freedom, bro," he said, and then he was laughing — that loud, dumb, relieved laugh that only Jot could do. Khem stared, disbelieving. "Jot...?" They collided in the middle of the road. Jot's arms locked tight around him, hard enough to hurt. He was still laughing against Khem's shoulder, shaking. "Welcome back, bro," he whispered, quieter this time. "You took long enough." Khem's fingers curled into the back of Jot's shirt. His voice was hoarse. "Thanks. It... it seems different outside." "Well, you've been inside for years. You'll get used to it again. I'll make sure you do." A taxi hissed to a stop behind them. The door opened, and Fah stepped out — black chino pants, crisp white shirt tucked in perfectly, sleeves folded just once at the wrists. Clean. Sharp. Too clean for a place like this. Both Khem and Jot looked up, eyes narrowing in question. Fah adjusted his watch, then smiled — polite, professional. "Mr. Khemthat. Mr. Jotthana. Hello." "Mr. Lawyer," Jot said, still keeping one arm around Khem, protective. "Thank you so much. You've helped us a lot." "No worries, Mr. Jotthana. I was only doing my job," Fah said lightly, but his eyes weren't on Jot at all. They were on Khem. Khem lowered his gaze. "Thank you," he said in a low voice. Fah's expression softened. "Congratulations on your freedom, Mr. Khemthat." He extended his hand. Khem stared at it. For a second too long. His hand hovered, then lifted — slow, trembling slightly. Fah noticed. He didn't say anything. He just stepped half a step closer, took Khem's hand and wrapped it fully in his own. Warm. Bare skin. No gloves. Khem's breath caught. No one had held his hand without gloves in years. No one except Jot. Fah's thumb brushed — just barely — over the back of his hand before he gave it a firm, gentle shake. "Thank you... Mr. Theerawit," Khem whispered. Fah held on a fraction longer than necessary, then let go. The warmth lingered. "Well, it's a good thing I caught you before you left. I hope to see you again in the future," Fah said, his voice lower now, meant only for Khem. "Take care of yourself." Then he turned. His walk was all confidence as he headed back toward the prison entrance — a man who belonged in a courtroom, not here. Jot watched him go, clicking his tongue. "I didn't trust this guy at first. But damn, he really did a great job." Khem wasn't listening. He was still watching Fah's back disappear through the gates. "Khem?" Jot called. Khem slowly lowered his head, staring down at his own hand — at the hand Fah had just held. The skin where Fah had touched was still warm. He turned it over, flexed his fingers, as if trying to keep the feeling from fading. "You are staring," Jot said, amused. Khem quickly curled his hand into a fist. "It's nothing. Let's go," he mumbled, ears red. Jot grinned and slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him toward the car. "Sure. Let's go. We'll get takeout first — my treat. Freedom feast." Khem let himself be pulled, but he glanced back one more time at the prison — at the place where the man in the white shirt had just vanished. * The back room behind Jot's repair shop wasn't big. But it was everything. A bed. A wardrobe. A bathroom. And a big window that gave a clear view of the street outside — noisy, alive, free. Khem stood in the doorway and looked around slowly. Too slowly. Like he was afraid the room would disappear if he breathed too fast. "My colleagues helped me convert it," Jot said from behind him, walking in. "It used to be a storeroom for car parts. We tried to make it... livable." Khem swallowed. "Thank you, Jot. This is more than enough. It really means a lot." "You are my friend, Khem. This is nothing," Jot said. "I can do more. I will do more." Khem nodded, his hands instinctively pulling his long sleeves down, further over his wrists. Over the white. "Take a shower. I left some of my old clothes in the wardrobe for you," Jot said. "Thanks." "Okay. Let me leave you to it. I'll dish up food for you." Jot turned to leave. The door clicked. Silence. Khem finally took off his shirt. His reflection stared back at him in the cracked mirror. He stared at his patches. Touched them — from his arms, up to his neck, up to his face. Slowly. Like he was re-introducing himself. His fingers stopped on the one at the side of his mouth. The one Fah had been staring at in the prison cell. Fahkrit Theerawit. That lawyer. He had shaken Khem's hand with a smile. Not with disgust. Not carefully avoiding the white patches. Gentle. Firm. Real. "Congratulations on your freedom, Mr. Khemthat Rattanapong." Khem let out a small chuckle now, alone in the room. He didn't show his teeth. He shook his head and walked into the bathroom. He let the water run over his face. It was warm. Gentle. Nothing like the cold water in jail. It hit him — 13 years ago The first shower in prison. Public. Cold. Exposed. "I want to go home to my mom!" he had cried, curled under the spray while other prisoners queued behind him, annoyed, impatient. "Get out if you're just going to stand there crying, you piece of s**t!" "Ma... I'm sorry..." he sobbed, unable to stop. Present Day Khem pressed his fingers into a fist. Jaw clenched. The warm water kept running down his face, mixing with what could have been tears. "You will cry no longer, Khem," he whispered to his own reflection. "She doesn't deserve your grief. Or your tears." He stayed under the water until his breathing was steady again. * Fah sat at the bar with his friends, a cold beer resting between his fingers. Laughter. Chatter. Music too loud. But his mind wasn't there. It was outside. On Khem. The Khem he had met in the visiting room — emotionless, dead-eyed, like a man who had already given up on life. And the Khem he saw today was... alive. Sparkling. Lively. Real. Maybe it was freedom. Fah chuckled without realizing it, a small smile playing on his lips. Than, sitting beside him, caught it immediately. "What?" Fah straightened up, fixing his posture. "Huh?" "Why are you smiling like that?" "Nothing. I'm just thinking about Nong Fai," Fah said casually. Than looked at him, suspicious, one eyebrow raised. "Are you sure you're thinking about your sister, Fah?" Fah rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer to hide his expression. "Of course I am, Than." Than leaned closer, grinning. "Funny. Because you never smile like an i***t when you think about Nong Fai."