Anthem
For eight hours, a crescendo of shrieks and groans has sung throughout the prison; and for eight hours, the ricachón has wept and tried to turn away. Bruises cover the indio’s swollen face. His teeth litter the floor and cigarette burns in the pattern of our flag dot his back. I have lost count of the fist strikes and the choking gasps of water vomited from straining lungs but for eight hours, the rich man has stood and witnessed and told us nothing.
The ricachón watched us put the indio in the iron chair and attach wires to his comrade’s ears, his nipples and finally to his balls. He uttered a soft “No” when our little machine came to life with a hard click. He flinched at the surge and the hiss of the clamps searing into flesh. He winced when his friend’s muscles and tendons contorted, and he gagged on the reek of singeing hair floating from the indio’s lap. With each symphonic click and pulse and screeching roar of anguish, I asked a single question but the ricachón has refused to answer. For eight hours, the only sounds he made were the mewling of his tears and his wasted pleas for us to stop.
J. Paul Ross is a graduate of Metropolitan State University of Denver and a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. His fiction has appeared in numerous online and in print magazines and journals including, 34 Orchard, The Antioch Review, The Bacopa Literary Review and Fiction International. Currently, he is working on a novel set along the Pan-American Highway. J. Paul recommends Amnesty International.
