Justice

Tim was just hungry. So hungry he could barely think straight.

He saw the loaf of bread through the shop’s window, a butcher’s. Probably ready to be sliced up to make those deliciously looking sandwiches he could see in the fridge. But he had to be quick, no time to go for the sandwiches, it would have to be just the bread but that would do.

Tim could only see the back of the butcher, chopping some big piece of meat facing the wall behind the counter. No customers, it was his chance.

Tim opened the door, a bell rang. He quickly ran to the counter and grabbed the loaf of bread. The butcher heard the bell and out of the corner of his eye he saw that quick shadow reaching towards the counter. It was just a reflex, he turned around while bringing his arm high and letting it fall with all his strength and precision over the counter.

A scream, a terrible pain and the sight of his hand, detached now from his arm, still grabbing the bread.

The trial was quick and the sentence clear. The butcher had to have his own hand chopped off and reattached to the victim’s arm. That was justice.

Tim looked at his foreign hand. Even one year after the reattachment he still couldn’t bare its sight. The color of the skin was a bit different, and it sort of worked, but he couldn’t just forget nor forgive what happened and the desire of revenge kept growing in him. It didn’t matter that the butcher lost his hand too. And his shop, as he couldn’t work anymore. Now both were homeless, living in the streets, but Tim just couldn’t have any sympathy for the butcher, just hate.

One night, Tim took a knife and went to the corner of the park where he knew the butcher was sleeping. With the knife in his foreign hand, he stabbed the butcher ten, twenty times, until he ran out of breath.

The trial was quick and the verdict clear. Death by his own hand, it was a suicide.

Daisy And John

Ding-ding, ding-ding, Daisy knows where to go. It's a cold and foggy winter morning and this doesn't play nice with her old bones. She is 17, and even if John covers her body with the little wool blanket coat Mary made her two winters ago, she moves with more difficulty than desire, one step at a time, over the snowy grass of the park. Every day, when trying to warm herself up laying in front of the fire after their hour long walk, she thinks she won't be able to do it again. That her legs won't respond next morning, when John grabs his hat while rolling a scarf around his neck and opens the door calling her name.

Ding-ding, ding-ding, John doesn't need to look back to know Daisy is following him. He walks slowly, at her pace, while ringing every now and then the little copper bell he holds in his hand, the one Mary bought him, three winters ago, when Daisy lost her sight. He knows Daisy doesn't like the cold, and he doesn't like it much either. At 87, he is too old for these long morning walks, or so his doctor says. But John knows that if he doesn't push Daisy a little through the winter, she might not enjoy a summer again.

Ding-ding, ding-ding. Daisy liked it better when they were three. She used to be the one running ahead, having to wait every now and then for Mary and John, always walking with a smile and holding their hands. Even if she didn't understand much of what they said, she liked to hear their conversations, always full of colourful sounds and laughters. Daisy misses their summer picnics, when John still had the car and they drove away from the noise, the heat and the smoke, with a basket of food and a bottle of wine, and spent the sweet afternoons under the big oak tree, over the blanket that now covers her back. But Mary left them last winter and they are only two now. John doesn't smile anymore, and his hands only hold now the little bell he still thinks Daisy needs. The winters seem colder and the walks feel harder now without Mary, even for John. But Daisy knows that if she doesn't push John a little through the winter, he might not enjoy a summer again.