"Come on! Hurry up! Do you think I've got all bloody day? What do you think I'm holding this for? It's not for show - it's to be used!"

Everyone facing the wall stays silent. Not a single sob can be heard, and the bang from next door still echoes in their ears. It's questionable whether the words are even being heard, let alone understood. It's as if a hammer keeps pounding against their skulls - thud - thud - thud - the throbbing never ends. When was the last time a headache dominated so completely that thinking became impossible?

Not a sip of tea has been taken, and the biscuits have been forgotten - or are they no longer needed? Who still dunks them in their tea like in the old days? A broken promise... or is it not really breaking your word when you're lying bound hand and foot on the cold tile floor of a refugee centre?

The black work boots beside his face are scuffed at the sides with red splatters on them. Janes closes his eyes. He'd give anything to forget it all: the illusion of a better life, the fire brigade job that never was, and the woman who disappeared... and somewhere out there, still a child and his mother...

Click-clack-clack... Is that the clock ticking? It sounds like grandmother's clock, the pendulum one she wound with a little key. "Leave it alone, Janes! Don't touch! If you keep winding it, the springs will snap!"

"Smear this on your face and hold this sign. Now smile for the birdie!"

Another flash goes off.

"I reckon that's perfect for the hoarding. What do you think?"

26.5.2025
Exit 13 - original Dutch