A Voice Crying from the Fields

Blood calls out to her from within the concrete of an alley. Colleen crouches, among the garbage cans, the gum, the shit, to listen.

“They found me out,” it tells her, “my sisters, as I figured they would, sooner or later. I wasn’t clever or cautious, I can see that now though not at the time. They found me out the first time they counted the money, the first time they measured the delivery. They beat the shit out of me, and for a moment I thought that was all, that pain might be enough, until they propped my head against the wall and leaned a foot into my neck. The money, the drugs, the drugs, the money; what has become of my daughter and her father?”

“I don’t know,” Colleen tells it, fruitlessly. Blood can only question, never hear. She wipes her heels clean on the wall and continues on.