And so they came to my door. They didn't have to sneak upon me, they knew I had nowhere to escape. The engine rumbled arrogantly; quiet, well-repaired engines are for the powerless. And then it stopped, merging into the night's silence, as easily as it had shattered it. I could then hear them, the sweaty, nervous militia men cocking their rifles.
I parted the curtain, and there they were, barrels aimed at my windows. Fully surrounded, as only the might of state can ensure. No escape then, no terms of surrender. I could go out in the blaze of guns the bastards wanted, for their glory, their honour, their shiny medals. Or I could choose a few more days of breathing. Panting more likely; I have asthma and they know it. A kangaroo court, a monkey trial. Blasphemy, treason, undermining the revolution, poisoning the peasants. The impassioned defence, the booing rabble, the shooting squad.
It was so tempting then to consider cyanide. And yet no, perhaps the fascination of the imminent theatre - oh, the spotlights - could fight it. As could imagining the masochism of the means of torture. The death-grip of this, this fascinating horror, was perhaps stronger than death's own grip. Which was coming anyway. I began to dress.