A Winters Eve in Late 2011
Cold sweat cried down the thick stone walls of the dark, narrow passage; the crude, ill placed torches blazing greasy black smoke, so dense that neither breadth nor sight came easily, each tinged acrid. She moved slowly, perhaps not just by choice, being somewhat weakened by loss of vital fluid, wisps of which still leaked like slowly trailing tears from twin pricks above her collarbone.
The eager bankers, watching from cracks cleverly molded in small fissures between the immense quarried blocks, salivated thinking: just a few more drops, but knowing that a few were never enough. Each slyly looked among his fellows to see if they were watching and as always, almost all were, but a stealthy few still managed to slip away.
The fools he thought, they’ll kill her, leaving nothing for the rest of us. Like a plague the same thought traveled from calloused heart to calloused heart and in an instant, they were all pouring through the hidden portal and attacking the helpless victim.
All the while, far above, her confused consort and other would be protectors were arguing over whose fault it all was.
And soon there were none.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2012; all rights reserved