Читать книгу The East Side of it All - Joseph Dandurand - Страница 13

He is buried somewhere in a prison of fools. He gets his meals and a good night’s sleep but he will be gone forever and most of us do not care one way or the other but for our people— we are the ones who paid the price as our mothers and sisters disappeared on his pig farm a few miles upriver from where he had taken them. Now they are just a memory but we never forget— as we never forget.

On any given night they say he would hunt like all predators downtown and he’d have his pick of the already lost and forgotten. He would pick his target and bring her back to the farm where he would keep her for a few days, feeding her drugs.

Once the desire was too overwhelming he would attack and explode with his inner demons. He would choose life or death and in our case it was always death.

With the plunge of the knife or the cold grasp of his filthy hands he would end them and bury them in the back.

As the new day began, the pigs of the world would feast.

If I could change time I would wait for the stinking pickup and that little man in his big boots to appear. I would follow him and as he picked up my sister, I would follow him and when he got home upriver, I would hop the fence and I would get to him before he could do her any harm and I would plunge a cold blade into his eye or I would wrap my hands around his neck and watch him slip away and then I would bury him in the back.

My sister and I would return to the city to await the next predator and we would do the same.

But that never happened and we still search and search for our sisters as they disappear and all I can do is stare at my hands as they strangle an imaginary evil who still to this day has a nice bed, a good meal, a lifetime of knowing he was more than a pig farmer.