Serve

The inquisitor, disguised in black, asked her to think back to an incident that happened before her first year serving here. She didn’t remember scandalous documents. She couldn’t recall grotesque photographs. The inquisitor gagged. That reminded her: she dredged up the memory of dogs baring their blood-stained teeth. She spoke quietly for hours. “But I still cannot recall how long I have served. Nor can I remember whom or what I serve. In the military? On the bench?” “You never served in the military or on the bench. You are serving a prison term, a life sentence. Remember?” Life sentence? She thought. What is that? Life is a beach. Life is a bitch. Life sucks. Life is a bowl of cherries. Those are life sentences; how does one go about serving them? She reconsidered, “I’m not serving; I’m doing…Time.” Yes, sounds more risqué. They troubled her with no further questions.