Mother cursed them. She didn’t understand. Not really. The secret police were but tools. Rough tools that cut both ways.
I tripped on the curb. My pajamas soaked through. My knee throbbed in pain as my slipper floated away.
A heavy hand wrenched me to my feet. Shoving, I stumbled forward. The dark maw of the truck waited to devour us.
I trembled. My knee felt unsteady, like rubber stretched too far.
“What are we being arrested for? I demand a phone call.” Mother’s beautiful voice, a melody gone wrong, fast and off key.
A gunshot punctuated its terminal note.
Picture is copyright by Gemma Stiles.