THE SUSPECT

The night was young; the stars were strewn brilliantly in the night sky. It was a wonderful night. But it was not for me.

" Name?" the question was asked several times, and my answer came like a croak.

" Angel Palma."

" Age?"

" 20."

"Occupation? he was patient with me.

"Student."

"Now I'll ask you one more time," his voice had an ominous threat, " Where were you when the bomb exploded in Mendiola?"

I peered through my half closed eyes. My head ached like a thousand bulldozers had ran over it, and my ears were painfully ringing. I could barely see as the caked blood in my eyes, blurred my vision.

"How many times will I tell you, I was at home sleeping!" I wanted to scream at him, but all I could manage was a whimper.

" With no witnesses to verify your alibi?" The blow was unexpected and I doubled up in pain as bone crunched against bone.

I couldn't breathe. I knew my lungs were ruptured. Were these the people who vowed to protect us? They were supposed to protect me from one such experience!


Image from: Justice Denied Org.

Two uniformed men held me up as my knees turned wobbly. There was a glint of steel from one, who was sitting to my right.

"Now one more time," the younger, more patient man crooned.

"Where were you on the eve of July 5, 2007? Were you assembling the bomb then? Tell me..." he whispered to my ear,..cajoling me...encouraging me...to talk. But I did not know what they were talking about.

The third man, kicked me so hard, I was barely aware of the cold nuzzle of the gun pointed at my temple..."I am going to die"..I thought..."I am going to die..." and for something I am not guilty of...

I was waiting for the bullet to tear its way through.....when I heard a persistent ringing..it grew louder and louder ..until....

I jolted up in bed...breathless... my heart pounding in fear and agony...I was only dreaming! The alarm clock had "saved" me. I was wedged between the bed post and my locker that was why I was feeling the pain in my chest. LOL.. Talk about coming in late, tired and not sleeping well. It was so real and vivid, I thought it was true...


(Note: This is a work of fiction. It is my belief that creative writers should be at liberty to acquire their own style, that they are free to approach any subject the way they want to, without fear of censure about grammatical errors and correct sentence structure, etc. There should be no fast rule with regard to this style.)
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