I count the corpses as I shuffle shaky-legged though the rotting corridor. Red campaign posters were dotted with brown sticky stains as was the carpet and the doors and the walls. Windows were cracked by people who beat them until their hands were bloody messes and the windows were riddled with bullet holes like a grotesque dot-to-dot. Some of the bodies had nickel-sized holes in their temples, some in their chests. Some skulls you could see were cracked underneath the skin. My co-workers, friends, family members lay dead on the ground; their eyes focused on a random point in space with shallow curiosity like abused ventriloquist dolls.
It must have been days. I was shoved in that cramped cupboard and told to stay in there for a week; one week then I had to run. I would be safe then. But the thing is I lost count of the days, the last of the biscuits ran out 2 hours before the last sleep, and my surroundings were reeking of stale fluids. Besides, they were long gone. They won’t’ be coming back.
My stomach began to churn and my head suddenly decided to throw me to the side. I steadied myself on a wall and slumped to the ground. I had to collect my thoughts.
Two months ago, the party appeared on the news: a new radical, liberal party was demonstrating in the square outside the book store. The police eventually called an end to the protest but they came back the next day, and the next, and the next each time louder and more passionate. Eventually, the party got so rowdy someone got killed: stomped to death by crowds. Nobody alone was responsible. Lots of people with a variety of political ideas, religions and morals gathered that day but the people demanded a scapegoat. The corpse was a 7 year old girl. The government decreed that any one associated with the party would be punished. It started with fines; then community service; then prison time; then worse.
I wasn’t all that involved with the party. I just worked in an accounting office; writing letters and stuff. I was never that into politics. But a lot of the people I worked with adored the party. It was like working with 5 dozen members of the cast of Les Miserables. They put up posters, demonstrated, planned meetings. It was the heart and soul of the party. It was pretty cool… until the army came.
It started with arrests. Then a few resisted. Then bullets…
I came round to the sight of a tall man with a glorified crash helmet on his head dressed in leather pointing a gun in my face. I had began to thought I had survived the massacre. It had only just begun.
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