by Rohan Hood
Ali Mushtaq sprang up from his rickety bed, startled. His tattered shirt was wet, stuck to his incised and frail torso. Third degree.
The cell reeked of piss and dead rodents.
But that’s not what bothered him.
Eight months. Every night. Same dream. Same suffering.
Ali had taste of steel in his mouth. His vomit did not make much difference to what surrounded him. He called out name. It echoed back from the dark unending corridors.
Soon, Ali was murmuring verses from the Koran till the devils took over.
The rain. The overcoat. The cigar. The pistol. The shot.
The only contrast to the scene was blood.
Who the heck killed Sabina Ali Mushtaq?