“And it shall stand here forever,” the director predicated.
The people in the square looked up in silence at the statue,
its mangled features, its twisted limbs, the cruel smile spread across its
marble face, and tried to imagine what it was supposed to mean.
Then one broke the silence, a woman, wrinkled, about
forty-five. “We will be free!” she cried, and ran at the statue. A gunshot
resounded through the street, and her body slumped across the statue’s base.
The sound of her cry hung low in the air, and the people reacted,
shouted, rallied, ran wild. The guards opened fire, and a barrage of bullets
ripped through the crowd before any could flee.
Once the last person fell, a girl whose blue dress was stained
with red, the director ran a finger across the blood that now painted the
statue. “It will have to be retouched,” she said.
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