The Wistful Show

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2026-08-19 14:43:56 -

The Wistful Show

The iron bit the skin. Cold. Wet. It tasted of rust and old blood. I did not look up. Looking up meant seeing the faces of the men who held me down. Seeing the fear in their eyes was worse than the pain. I kept my gaze fixed on the mud. The mud was black. Thick. It sucked at my boots with a greedy, silent mouth. I counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. The hammer fell. Not a strike. A vibration....

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