Rewritten 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…