Mother Knows Best(book 1)

Chapter 49

They tried to bury us. They did not know we were seeds

Mexican Proverb

        Death loved to play her tune.

       And she loved to play it in prison.

           For the shadows paired with the light and the two danced and became merry. Snippets of their pirouette flicked on the walls, painting a soft silhouette cavort. The more she played, the more they waltz. And the more they waltz, the more she played. Breathlessly their bodies leaped against the walls, against the gray bars, against the black chains that bound limbs. And when she was done playing, they became feverish and shadows writhed around their partners, swallowing them whole. And Death was pleased with this the most. Death loved colors. Bright and warm spring colors. And so she stole first the souls who birth the richest and brightest of tones.

               She took them into her carriage and showed them around. She pleased them with chivalry and gifts. And kissed their temples lovingly. To the gray-hearted, she turned a blind eye to and she allowed them to rot slowly. They would get their pain and she would make sure of it. Death's gown was white and it glowed and had a split to reveal one leg.

      The prison was a hollow cube of concrete.

       Walls of thick grey stones with a bared opening. There were no windows, but thick metal bars and a stench of festering sewage. There was no plank of woods, no mattresses, no cushioning, no blankets. There were only deathly silences and painful howls of tortured inmates and death. Survival of the fittest as they, whoever they are, say or said. Meals brought the animal out of them. Only the strong ones greedily devoured, leaving no space of the idea of sharing. And the weak ones were left by the bars with their heads split like apple slices.

       Leaving enough souls for death to puppeteer.

             But the cells were empty now. All the weak ones dead and all the strong ones weakened each other. Death was here for another reason though. A new prisoner was coming. And the prison needed to welcome her in. Death brushed a finger along the bar's cheek and swept the remains of tortured souls out of the room. She washed and dried and polished the floors. Then she stood, with her back firmly against the bars, strumming her guitar.

       Once the voice of her guitar faded, the newly prisoner arrival.

        And by her side, an angry Judge Smoothers.