The mob cried for blood with their platcards and their screams, and you can’t forget their anger. “Death to the murderer, death to the killer, death to the rapist”, they chanted out. It was a large crowd which could almost as large as the city itself, except for the few thousand more of citizens who did not bother with the protests. “We demand death for his crimes”, cried one of the protestors to a journalist’s camera.
Woosh
The gushing of water sounded out forcefully, slamming into the protestors who were put the city to a standstill. A police force as large, as the protestors, charged into them with their batons and shields. A police force ordered to charge on peaceful, angry protestors by incompetent leaders.
A child raped and murdered that’s what got the crowd gathered here. The anger and frustration piled up against people who thought they could get away because the lazy system allowed them to get away.
“We must have justice”, cried the television channels. However, while the city radiated of anger, the rest of the country slept, trying to work their through life, like they always do.
***
Anita stood among these protestors, banner in hand, her mouth wide open and her vocal scream out her cause, her ideals. She was here to say enough was enough, enough for those cat calls, enough of being taken advantage off, enough of being harassed and enough of a repressive culture. And with her calls, came the demand for the death of murderer. Her platcard boldly read, ‘An eye of an eye’.
***
Rahul walked tirelessly for the past few hours on the hospital corridor, trying to sooth his worry while his ears were alert for the slightest sound of footsteps, of news on what happened to his child. His wife sat on the metal bench, her body gently arching back and forth, her way of dealing of the wait.
Walking, waiting for the news, it was killing him. He wanted to do something.. like... like... running back to his house and pulling out his service revolver. He did not deserve this, his child did not deserve this. Yet, right now, she was knocking on heaven’s door.
Through his mind, the most violent images flashed through. Images of hammering down a brick wall, strangling the life out of a blurred face, his hands swing down, clutching the hammer and the sickening sound of crunch.
This would not be the first time he killed, it changed him, he could take the damage to his soul.
[No, I'm not done, I still have a point to make, please read The Doorway Part II here]
Woosh
The gushing of water sounded out forcefully, slamming into the protestors who were put the city to a standstill. A police force as large, as the protestors, charged into them with their batons and shields. A police force ordered to charge on peaceful, angry protestors by incompetent leaders.
A child raped and murdered that’s what got the crowd gathered here. The anger and frustration piled up against people who thought they could get away because the lazy system allowed them to get away.
“We must have justice”, cried the television channels. However, while the city radiated of anger, the rest of the country slept, trying to work their through life, like they always do.
***
Anita stood among these protestors, banner in hand, her mouth wide open and her vocal scream out her cause, her ideals. She was here to say enough was enough, enough for those cat calls, enough of being taken advantage off, enough of being harassed and enough of a repressive culture. And with her calls, came the demand for the death of murderer. Her platcard boldly read, ‘An eye of an eye’.
***
Rahul walked tirelessly for the past few hours on the hospital corridor, trying to sooth his worry while his ears were alert for the slightest sound of footsteps, of news on what happened to his child. His wife sat on the metal bench, her body gently arching back and forth, her way of dealing of the wait.
Walking, waiting for the news, it was killing him. He wanted to do something.. like... like... running back to his house and pulling out his service revolver. He did not deserve this, his child did not deserve this. Yet, right now, she was knocking on heaven’s door.
Through his mind, the most violent images flashed through. Images of hammering down a brick wall, strangling the life out of a blurred face, his hands swing down, clutching the hammer and the sickening sound of crunch.
This would not be the first time he killed, it changed him, he could take the damage to his soul.
[No, I'm not done, I still have a point to make, please read The Doorway Part II here]
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