The Execution of a Counter-Revolutionary

It is no use to beg anymore. He has begged them many times to let me speak to the head of the army hospital, but he’s told nobody will listen to him, a bad-egg, who only deserves a bullet. “We’ve been ordered to get your skin,” the squad-leader says, “to repair the extensive burns of Liu Yi who risked his own life saving horses from the burning stable. Now, let’s go.” They take him to the hill behind the hospital. It’s dinner time and the loudspeaker is playing music. Nobody will hear the shot in the woods. They stop at a ruined temple whose stones, bricks and rafters have been ripped off by the villagers. In the distance a light is shining like a glow-worm. He doesn’t know whether it’s a star or a lamp. It doesn’t matter now. He takes it as the pole-star. His only worry is: I’m not nineteen yet and my parents will never know how their son disappeared. “Now you may say something if you want.” They pull out the towel from his mouth and wait. Suddenly he starts yelling, “I curse all of you, the whole hospital! All your babies will have no ass-holes and die at birth! I curse Liu Yi and his family too! He and his folks will be struck by thunderbolts!” They raise their pistols and he raises his tied hands: “Long live the Chinese Communist Party! Long live—” One pistol fires. He wanted to shout “Chairman Mao,” but they wouldn’t let him get it out. The bullet hit his penis— which is the best way to save the skin.