| Does anyone get the message across better than Robert Mapplethorpe |
















| She looked at the bucket resting on the floor in the corner of the cell. “This isn’t God’s domain, Ethan. It belongs to Satan.” The tightness in her chest gripped harder. The bitter truth was a rancid taste in her mouth. Resignation threatened, the debilitating scourge of the human spirit, creeping over her like a fever. She had heard many tales of torture and had filed them away in vague parts of her mind. Here she could breathe the smell. It wasn’t blood or vomit—that had been washed down the drain. It wasn’t ammonia, though that odor lingered in the room like a taunting ghost. It was pain she could smell: men and women dehumanized, reduced to insignificance by their own involuntary betrayal. It was the smell of death. “Ethan, I don’t want to die like this. Not like this. Not like a helpless victim at the hands of brutes.” She was on the verge of sobbing. She held up her manacled arms. “We can’t even attack to make them kill us.” From THE PARTISANS, Chapter 13 |
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| The Male Form Page Two |