Trail of Ants

The narrow bench was worn and hard, a metaphorical reflection of the staunch, motionless policeman sat opposite me. His face was blank, while mine was stained with two hours of anguish. NewsFlashTV flickered muted news on a small screen placed awkwardly high on it’s rusting bracket - forty police officers penning in two presumably unlicensed, understandably irate female street vendors to a frenzied counterattack. I drew on a Marlborough as I watched them hurl chunks of ice the size of rugby balls at the law, inside I was cheering them on. I took another drag. Who would I call first? His embassy, or mine? What would I tell his family? Would I be honest and tell them the locals left him there to die or would I be gentle and tell them of the numerous conversations we’d had about our travel highlights? At sixty-five, he was too young to die. At any age, he, or I, or you deserve someone to fight. I pictured myself at his wake, a young wisp of truth sat in the corner picking at pineapple sticks with cheese while whispers about my origin cornered stray rumours. ‘No Margaret, that’s the boy that was staying at the same place as…’ But then the phone rang, he was alive! The events of that day were rapidly laced in bitter truths. A day that began with me realising what the human body is capable of, ended with the stark reality of the capability of the human mind. Continue reading ‘Losing my Will’