The aura of unspeakable death was writhing in the marrow of my bones as I entered that place. My spirit nearly abandoned all hope.
“The prisoners were made to flick the switches. They were hooked up to a machine administering shocks to the others,” I said.
Father was a prominent official against the massacre of Tutsis. There was information in my traitorous blood, which they spilled slowly, day by day to wrest loose.
“Identify the person in charge at the prison,” the Special Prosecutor said.
My spirit would ultimately win. I braced, pointed across the room, and said triumphantly, “Him.”
This has been an installment of the Friday Fictioneers Challenge. If you would like to give the challenge a try, start at Rochelle’s Purple Blog and join the fun.
Here’s the concept: A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end).
Have fun and happy writing!