The Muralist

by B.A. Shapiro

He lolled mindlessly, miserably, in the dark place, not wanting to be there, but unable to go anywhere else. He was pressed down by anxiety, weighted in place by an all-encompassing self-loathing, his mind turned into crystalized molasses: sharp, impenetrable, and unbearably painful. But when the darkness began to loosen its hold, as it invariably did, the suicidal demands became more insistent. And that was where the real danger lay.

Mindless war. Mindless killing. The lust for power. Hatred of the other. The destruction of innocents. It hit her like a sucker punch. Babette was right: If Hitler had done this in Spain, he could do it in France. Do it anywhere. Everywhere. She sat down hard on a bench.