Fallen By Blood And Love

chapter 2: The Villain’s Memory

A while later, in the emergency ward of a nearby hospital, cold white lights draped the quiet space. The soft echo of doctors’ and nurses’ footsteps floated down the hall. Thiện had been given first aid; the wounds on his face and hands were roughly bandaged. Bảo still lay motionless inside the resuscitation room, the door shut tight, only a sliver of light leaking through the small window.

Thiện sank into a chair, fingers interlaced, eyes fixed on that door. Beside him, the plump uncle sighed, wiped sweat from his brow, then spoke in a heavy voice:

“Why did you and Bảo get beaten again?”

Thiện bit his lip, voice trembling: “Because of… because of those bastards, Uncle Bay. They were tormenting Milu… I couldn’t stand it, I ran in to fight them, but… but I couldn’t fight back, they beat me to pieces.”

At that, panic flashed across Thiện’s face. He sprang up and blurted out: “Oh no! Milu was left behind in the alley!”

Uncle Bay grabbed his hand and pulled him back, stern: “What good would you do going back now? What if you run into them again? Sit down! Your brother’s still in the resuscitation room.”

Thiện clenched his fists, then reluctantly sat, his chest burning with worry.

Opposite them, Na Na sat curled up, eyes red and rimmed with tears. She asked in a small voice: “Brother Thiện… is Brother Bảo okay? Will he… die?”

“Hey! Don’t say bad things like that. Spit that out and say it again properly! Bảo will be fine!” Thiện tapped Na Na lightly on the head, forcing a smile to reassure her.

Then his tone softened: “But how come you’re here?”

Na Na shuffled, shy: “I… I came to find you and Brother Bảo to play. Then I saw Bảo running with the iron rod into the alley. I chased after and saw them beating you and Brother Bảo lying still. I was so scared, I just hid in a corner. Then I thought to shout that the police were coming… to scare them.”

Thiện gently ruffled her hair, voice much kinder: “You’re smart. Thank you — because of you we got away.”

Na Na smiled, but the smile faded as she turned her gaze toward the resuscitation room door. “When will Brother Bảo wake up?”

Thiện looked at the floor, brow knotted, only shaking his head: “I don’t know…”

Uncle Bay finally exhaled softly, reproachful but full of affection: “You two… always can’t stay out of trouble, always fighting. If Na Na hadn’t been quick-witted, you’d be done for.”

He reached over to pat Na Na’s head, his eyes full of consolation: “Your girl is too clever. But next time, find me first, don’t act rashly. If they don’t fear the police and come back before you can run, how would I know to save you?”

Na Na murmured “yes,” then stuck out her tongue and clung to Uncle Bay’s fat belly, voice tiny: “I know…”

Uncle Bay chuckled and shook his head. In that quiet moment, the three of them — Thiện, Na Na, and Uncle Bay — all turned their eyes toward the resuscitation room where Bảo lay motionless, as if waiting for a miracle.

Inside the resuscitation room, Bảo lay still, breath shallow, his small face ashen. In his coma, old memories surged back clearly, like an old film replaying in slow motion.

Once, Bảo and his brother had a warm home — grandparents, parents, laughter every day. But in a short time, it all vanished. The grandparents died one after another from strokes, only one week apart; they left holding hands. The parents, scarcely finished with the funerals, met with a sudden accident on the day they went to collect the ashes from the crematorium — they died tragically. Before the boys could understand what was happening, they were orphaned.

Before they had time to grieve, the house was foreclosed. Their belongings were thrown onto the street; even the family altar, still smelling of incense, was tossed aside. From then on, Bảo and his brother became homeless, lost amid the crowded city.

Milu — the little dog their father had once brought home as a birthday present — was now the last remaining link to their family. It was a comfort, the only warmth left from a lost home.

Unlike his brother, Bảo could not accept this new life. He felt irritated, resentful; he felt the world only took from him and gave nothing back.

Thiện took him to collect scrap, to carry bowls at a sidewalk eatery, scraping through each day. After a year, the two brothers had become street kids: work by day, sleep on a meat stall at night, or under a bridge, or at a bus-stop shelter. In Bảo’s eyes, his brother was no longer just a sibling — he was the only precious thing left in the world, something to hold tight and protect at any cost.

Bảo also knew, deep down, that he was not like his brother. He had early shown an unusually cold nature. With chickens and fish — when it came to slaughtering, smashing skulls — his brother always trembled and feared the act, but Bảo did it naturally, without shaking. He even took a grim pleasure watching them writhe and then go still. That sensation of holding life and snuffing it out brought him a strange relief, as if he possessed real power.

Gradually, chickens and fish were not enough. He began to think of Milu. The animal had been by his side since childhood; what would it feel like if he ended that life with his own hands? The thought sank in, growing into a craving.

He drew up a plan, worked out each step in detail for how he would do it to Milu. But before the plan could be carried out, the thugs appeared and ruined everything. They trampled Milu mercilessly, beat his brother, and stole the two most important things to him. He was furious — they had dared to touch his food and what he considered his own — he felt his power insulted.

In his coma, he ground his teeth as the thought flashed: he wanted to smash them, to make them pay, to see them writhe like the chickens and fish he had killed before.