This week’s first line:
Being tied to a chair was about as unpleasant as he imagined.
Added to this was the constant taunting from the children who came by. It was as if he was in some sort of nightmare.
He was tied to a chair in the middle of the High Street, with cars zooming by and beeping horns, hands waved from windows, some giving him the bird and the occasional half-filled milkshake thrown at him.
On top of all, this was the nearness of small children who poked fun at him, struck him with stones and sticks, who called him names and told him terrible things were going to happen to him.
They had no fear of him. They stood in his face, they spat on him, one rubbed a rotten tomato in his face.
What children were these he wondered? What were they teaching them in school? It was as if they had been schooled in violence upon their tied-up elders. He wondered what their parents must be doing right now, surely, they could not be condoning this atrocious behaviour.
He was secured tightly, there was no escape. Momentarily his crime escaped him. What had he done to deserve this?
Then he remembered. The night. The victim. The run. Fleeing. He didn’t think he would catch his prey, but he did.
They did have a right he reasoned. He had done a bad thing. He was deserving of the ridicule.
He took a deep breath as another tirade of abuse landed on him. A hand shook him. There was laughter all round. He was shaken again. What now he wondered.
Then a voice reminded him of his crime. He nodded in agreement.
Then a gun was fired.