Prison
Spring Warmth
My father was a treacherous official.
The man who raided my home was my fiancé.
When he slipped the iron chain around my neck, his touch was even more tender than the year he placed a flower wreath upon my head.
On the day my father was beheaded in public, I was calmly picking lice off my mother. I remarked, “If I had a fire, I could stir-fry these lice and pair them with a pot of wine.”
Unexpectedly, my words drew a laugh from the young general in the neighboring cell, despite the hooks driven through his collarbones. Was it that funny?
