Small hands
I lift my hand towards the sky, stretching my fingers wide enough to intercept the sun like tree branches. “3, 2, 1,” I whisper under my breath, counting sunlight in seconds: how many blinks does it take before warmth incinerates into blindness? How far is the distance between evil and an eyeball? Does it burst like trust ruptured? Palms pressed, our fingers are a thick tangle, a vicious knot; nails tracing every edge of each other’s wounds. The sea swallows another muffled cry. Bruise-coloured clouds stack up in opaque scarlet. Each time a tear falls, I squint my eyes, as if to seize all the light that can fit into spaces between my fingers. All the tenderness we do not deserve.
In August, a woman was injured in the eye during clashes between police and protesters in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong. Eyewitnesses and local media attributed her injury to the shooting of a bean bag round by the police. Two months later, Indonesian journalist Veby Mega Indah was hit in the face by a rubber bullet while covering an anti-government protest. The reporter’s lawyer said her eye has been permanently blinded. They are widely seen as victims of police brutality and obstruction of press freedom.
