A lone vulture circles the parched earth, its beady eyes scanning the scene below. A dust storm churns in the distance, swirling like a shroud over the sun-bleached landscape. Nestled within the dust devil's shadow lies a cluster of ramshackle houses, their roofs riddled with holes like the open wounds of the land. It dives, capturing its prey--A dead man's arm in its claw.
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Mrs. Goro cries hoarsely with torn lips. Cheeks sliced apart from her weeping agape grin. Countless tears of her puke gushing out onto the rat fecal floor and graffitti walls. In the same fashion as her blood eyes roll upwards, trying to pop out for the glorious site of her husband's final hardened vigor and the bliss pful vulture. The rot choking her nostrils, long enough for roaches to settle on her lap.
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Five-year-old Bopil approaches, his small hand hesitant on the doorframe. The room smells of decay, a thick, cloying miasma that hangs heavy in the air. Men in white hazmat suits bustle about, their movements efficient and emotionless. They maneuver a covered body towards the door, brushing past Bopil without a word.
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Mrs. Goro's head snaps up, her scream tearing through the silence. "STOP! STOP!" Her scar ridden throat wrings out her raw, rattling voice. But the men ignore her pleas, their faces hidden behind plastic masks. The grimey door slams shut, leaving a child in the shadow, and a woman in her sneering silence.
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A month later, Bopil watches from a distance as the cliff wind whips Mrs. Goro's hair around her face. Her hands tremble as she loosens the ropes holding a canvas-wrapped bundle. It tumbles down the precipice, disappearing into the hazy abyss below.
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"YOU'RE FREE NOW MY HUSBAND!" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the storm wind's roar, FREE!"
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She turns to Bopil, her smile unwavering. Her neck twists at an unnatural angle, her eyes glinting with a manic light. "Now," she croaks, her voice a chilling rasp, "let's go home."
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Bopil stares back with somber eyes. His young heart heavy with a dread he cannot yet comprehend. The crows circle overhead, their shadows painting ominous patterns on the cliff's edges. The storm's fog closes in, swallowing the sun and leaving behind an unsettling stillness. Gray in the silence, three shadows emerges--their dark eyes following a bypassing paraglider.
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