Twenty Two

The door slammed heavily.

I could breathe. I was alone. For the first time in weeks, there was no-one barking questions at me, no guards, no media.

God it’s quiet.

The media… at least Art survived. He put me in front of the camera, the world. I told them what the new party had done, how this whole thing began. How I set this country on fire with the pull of a trigger, a request that seemed so reasonable so many summers ago. Art was disgusted by me, I was a human stain. I didn’t care, I was free.

The coloured glow of the television danced on the ceiling in front of my eyes. There was a shooting at a restaurant last night, a foreigner. Unidentified, but I knew who it was. He’d been doomed as soon as the camera started rolling, just like the faces in those folders.

Looking down at the protesters in the street, braying for blood and justice. Similar scenes played out on the television behind me, former heroes of the people frogmarched into prison. Lighting a cigarette, feeling the acrid burn fill my lungs. Was it finally over? It all seemed too easy.

It all seemed too neat.

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