By Emmanuel Lachlan
The cell door slammed shut and the echo took some seconds to die away.
Damn, Arif. London said he was solid.
Pacing the cell, her tongue probed the tooth. It had taken two hours to fit.
That last punch nearly dislodged it.
Today, the interrogation had gone as expected, but she knew tomorrow wouldn’t.
Slumping onto the sandstone floor, she smelt the years of blood and vomit. Moonlight oozed through the high window catching the orange dust.
She waited for sunrise and listened for the key in the lock.
Lord, forgive me.
She bit down hard and felt the tooth shatter.
Great imagery, both visual and otherwise: “. . .she smelt the years of blood and vomit.” The ending seemed inevitable, therefore quite appropriate.