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Goats and Gunshots

Goats and Gunshots | Page 2

It has been quiet for ages now. No more shots. Still the goats chatting to each other though, but that's OK. In fact it's strangely comforting. I dare to look around the room. There's the big bed, its white sheets are stained with sweat, and mascara streaks the pillows. In the corner near the window sits a big dark wood chest of drawers, ornately carved. My perfume bottle and a necklace I vaguely recognise sits on its glass top.

My body is perfectly still. Only my eyes search the room for hints of what is going on. Opposite the drawers a huge dark wardrobe lurks in the corner. Its pock marked mirror reflects my perfume bottle, my necklace, and myself - cowering against the curtains. I look further around the room. Near the bed there is a door into what might be a bathroom. I vaguely recall using it sometime, maybe recently.

My head snaps around. There's a noise. Near the wardrobe. The door creaks slowly open. Sweat breaks out again, dripping all over me. My heart pumps hard. The curtains move slightly. Nothing more.

Still I hug the edges of the curtains my fingers gingerly coach a minute space between them so I can peer outside into the sunlight. Surely I’m safe, it's a very long time since the last gunshot.

I see a taxi draw to a slow stop in the street far below my window, making me remember, a man, tall and muscled. He had a thick black beard and he wore a blue shirt with a shape and some words embroidered on it. The shape was a sort of cross, but thick, with angled lines, and it too was blue, but darker than his shirt. He smelt of cigars and garlic. He stood next to an old black taxi talking softly and insistently to a blonde woman.

Goats and Gunshots | Page 2

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