Friday the 13th
The chill invaded the very core of my existence. I blew raspy breath on my numb fingers, trying to get the blood flow. Stamping my feet was not enough to ward off the hungry tendrils of cold that threatened to slice open the thick denim that clad my limbs. My lungs shuddered with every labored inhalation. That I was unaccompanied only heightened the feeling of iciness.
Two mangled bodies lay in a pool of blood with a machete protruding out of one of the bodies. It was the girl, I decided. Her feet were bent at an odd angle. Her body suggested motion. The boy lay prone, several inches away from her. He had tried to get hold of the scared girl perhaps when his fingers had been chopped off. Their tattered clothes suggested struggle. An eerie glow from the loft overhead cast a gloomy and oft fluttering light on the duo.
“Like what you see?” asked a grave voice.
I turned around with a start and was face to face with the perpetrator. His eyes shone with excitement. I could see hunger in those twinkling orbs.
I nodded and clapped.
“I’ve never seen such a perfect art installation in my entire career as a curator. People do not exaggerate about your work,” I smiled as I handed him the first prize. “Can’t wait for you to come and showcase your talent in our gallery,” I added for good measure.
“So am I. This indeed is the best of the lot. What do you call this particular installation?”
“Friday the 13th.”
I nodded before venturing to the next display.