80
OPT ZECI
ecember 25th.
Christmas Day. 1989.D The Ceauşescus’ trial lasted less than two hours. The chief military judge delivered the verdict in minutes. Crimes against the people.
Genocide—guilty. Sentenced to death.
4:00 p.m. Executed.
Beloved Leader and Mother Elena, shot by firing squad near a military toilet block. Their death was televised. I stood, staring at their crumpled bodies on the gritty screen. After decades of prolonged suffering, the hasty finality felt confusing somehow. Was that how it was supposed to end? So quickly? I suddenly had an odd, lingering sensation, unsure of what I was feeling. Did we have the full truth? What exactly had happened—and how?
And then, a smell. I couldn’t quite place it. And the noise, a pounding at first, filtered into my ears. Was it my own breath and heartbeat? And then I realized. No, it was the desperate scent of long-trapped prayers beating against the walls and windows, tripping over photographs of dead relatives, trying to find a way out.
I ran across the room and threw open a window.
To finally set them free.