Saturday 23 July 2016

Can't Complain



About ten years ago, she approached me just as my opponent had conceded defeat. She asked me, tape recorder rolling, how I felt. My smile, for the first time during the campaign, was genuine.

“Can’t complain.”

About five years ago, she approached me just as I had left the stage, having finished reading my prepared statement about the war. She asked me, shiny political badge on her lapel, how I thought about condemning millions of young people to die.

“Can’t complain.”

This morning, she approached my cell, smiling.

I would have complained, but the mob had torn my tongue out.

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