Tears of Blood

Rewritten, retouched and republished. Originally posted on fictionspawn.com September 21. 2016.

Gundersen was standing on his little bedroom balcony. He could see the whole factory from here. It was going well, they had lot of profit. He was getting rich.

The workers kept complaining, though. Assholes. He had built a great factory they could work in, and all they ever did was whimper. Our children are hungry, they said. We can’t afford medicines. With the accidents lately things had gotten worse.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. She had been only eight years old, the little girl. Her body crushed in the paper compressor. Her swollen face. Her eyes sticking out, blood running down her cheeks like tears. He shivered. He didn’t want to think about it. Workers could be replaced, but he didn’t didn’t want to see these kinds of things.

Rumours were running through the worker’s quarters. A shadow had been seen at night. Sneaking around between the houses.

It looked like a ghost, one of the mechanics had said. Some said it was evil spawned out of misery. Gundersen was hoping it would stay on the other side of the fence.

He noticed that the main factory gate was open. It shouldn’t be. Everything should be closed down at this hour.

Something came running over the bridge crossing the river. Moving in his direction. It looked human, but it as wiggling in a strange way. It looked like it was dragging something. Moving from side to side, stopping, moving forward again. It disappeared in the shadows. On his side of the river.

Martin! No answer. Where was that lazy butler? Martin, where are you? He went down the stairs. Picked up the phone. It was dead. Lazy phone operators.

There was a movement outside of the window by the entrance. He walked over, looked out. Darkness. Dead silence. A sound from upstairs made him spin around. He grabbed the ivory walking stick be the door, held it up as a weapon. He walked back up, went into the living room. No one. Neither in the bedroom.

He heard footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. Slowly. A dragging sound followed every step. Slowly he moved closer. He heard the steps reach the top of the stairs. His hair rose in his neck. His mouth dried up. There was no one there.

Silence. He could hear his own heart beat. Fast. He could feel something behind him. Staring at him. He stopped breathing. Slowly he turned around. A figure was standing there. A little girl . Her body crushed. Eyes sticking out. Blood running down her cheeks like tears.

She screamed. A girls voice, twisted by pain and suffering. Hate.

Tonight you die!!!

She charged at him. Flew through the air, dragging her legs over the floor. Grabbed his throat. A glow of sinister revenge had replaced the empty death in her eyes.

She pushed him out through the closed balcony door. Glass splintered around them. They fell over the fence.

He gained consciousness being dragged over the bridge. Through the factory gate.

Help! He screamed. Somebody help me!!!

In the noise of the paper compressor no one could hear his screams.

http://firstindustrialrevolution.weebly.com/working-and-living-conditions.html

http://www.globalissues.org/article/57/corporations-and-workers-rights

The Witch Doctor
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