13 JAN 2018 Uprising

13 JAN 2018

When the Revolution comes, that is, during the Revolution, the People would storm the Palace, and then they would corner the First Family in one of the opulent rooms filled with glass and gold and shining metal. A profile of the First Family: there’s a video of them shot a couple of decades ago, and it was this party. People were dancing and drinking, there were foreigners and actors and actresses. There were the richest businessmen, and the most powerful supposed leaders and or representatives of the people. I remember the most decadent part of this whole affair was when the giant cake was brought out. It was so large that it was wheeled into the center of the dancing hall. Then the singing of happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, blowing out of the candles, and surprise out of this cake emerges this big fat man, a full-grown adult, dressed only in bib and diaper, clutching a bottle of milk, saying ‘mama’ ‘mama’, fat pudgy arms reaching out, to the delight of the First Lady. And people were laughing, and the music was so loud, and the lights were multi-colored and too bright to be decent.

The royal family would plead, but the pleading comes later, at first the Old Man is too proud to admit that he was betrayed by his own generals. They’re outside the Palace, the Generals, and they have pledged allegiance to the People earlier. Opportunistic bastards these Generals. It was only when the tide was too strong, when the movement have become unstoppable that they switched sides. This effectively divided the army. There were those who were loyal to the Old Man, and there were those who were followers of these two Generals.

Later outside the Gates of the palace, on the tall aluminum lamp posts, the Royal Family is hanged one by one – one person per lamp post. There we see the fat pudgy man crying as the noose is placed around his neck. Then he is pushed from the platform and there is a crack as his neck is broken, and then the people rejoiced. Next is the First Lady herself, patron of the arts, known for her vast collection of shoes, dresses and jewelry. They were gifts to me, she would say, they are my personal property. We did not steal a cent from the People, but the people hear her and she is booed and trash and mud are thrown at her. The noose is placed down her fat neck, and she is pushed from the platform and then she struggles like a chicken whose neck has just been slashed, writhing here and there for everyone to see. She truggles in full view of her other children and the Old Man President For Life, and the people, and all the military people who sided with the people.

The Old Man President for Life is up on the platform and he is looking angry, and as he is about to say something, the executioner slaps him on the face, places the noose around his neck, and then pushes him. Maybe because the push was too forceful, maybe the rope was just too weak, the rope breaks, the Old Man falls headfirst onto the concrete and there is an audible crack as he skull is crushed by his own weight.

The Palace is burned. All the paintings and documents, all the wonderful furnishings and historical things went up in smoke. The smoke filled the sky above the country, darkening everything for half a year. The crops could not grow, and there was a bit of a crop failure, but the people thought this was okay, so long as the First Family is no longer there and lording it over everyone, stealing the people’s hard earned taxes, spending it on lavish parties and things, using it to pay the soldiers and police who beat innocent people to death, but not before torturing and raping some of them. A young student-activist fails to turn up home one night and her body is found days later in a morgue. It was brought their by the police, the morgue’s manager said. The body was in an awful state. There were signs of sexual abuse and physical torture – the head was half-bashed in, there is a huge gash below the rib-cage, there were bite-marks and cigarette burns on her arms and legs. The family could only stand and watch as the morgue owner explained the wounds and bruises on her body, too shocked to cry. The crying would come days later once the body had been properly buried. They’re lucky, as far as luck goes in this miserable world, that they ever found the body of their loved one, though one could say that maybe it would have been better had they never seen the body. Most people just disappeared, and their families were left in this gray Purgatory of wondering what has happened to their son or daughter or sister or brother or father or mother … The police claimed that she was a member of the outlawed Communist Party, that she was a member of an organization that sought to undermine the security of the duly-elected Government of the country. She was killed in a shoot-out, they claimed, she was carrying an AK-47 they said.

The bodies of the First Family were left there, no one were allowed to touch it, not the priests who said that these people are still Roman Catholics and they have souls and their bodies should be respected and be given a proper funeral, not the relatives who were rich and fearing for their lives so that they were nowhere to be found anyway, maybe they already fled the country into someplace they think safe, not the few loyalists who were claiming that the First Family did nothing wrong, that although the regime brought some hardships for a few, overall it was a good government for most. The bodies were exposed to rain and sun. The smell was overwhelming. It fizzed out of the bodies with a sickly green color and permeated the country. But it was okay, the people said, we could do without smelling ever again, so long as we are constantly reminded that the First Family is no longer there.

13 JAN 2018

Advertisements

About kara

I just like to read. Used to work in a library. My interests are horror and the gothic imagination, absurd and dark humor, urban legends, and other related unwholesome topics. I write short fiction sometimes. Older stuff: https://www.scribd.com/user/93209/narodnikkki
This entry was posted in fiction and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s