Jana Živanović

A girl running down Knez Mihajlova street and waving at the bus driver. That’s me - an eternal dreamer, an optimist, an ex-violinist, a present writer, book reviewer, a graduate student, a future teacher of the English language. Social chameleon and stage lover. An eternal dreamer eternally late. A chatterbox, a Facebook addict, Harry Potter fan, and lover of salsa dancing. I love kids, people, pizza, pancakes, pink and the smell of busy summer air in the heart of noisy Belgrade.

Who Ate the Master’s Cake

          POLICE STATION, 5 AM, room 66.

    Flashbacks... Street, house, no number. Hall. Wine. Buffet. Handcuffs. Police station.

         “So, you have no idea who’s responsible for this?” The logy officer peered at him, breathing heavily.

          “No,” the young man sighed, wiping his nose.

     “Right, then. Keep him in the cell.” Another officer appeared, shoving the man behind the bars. “You’re gonna tweet, birdy!”

        “Seems the lil’ pussy ain’t gonna say much”, concluded the former. “Dunno what to do with him.” He pulled out a drawer from the cupboard with torture tools. “Pliers? Won’t do. Cables? Hmm. We need somethin’ stronger. Hey, mate, what would the Master do?”

     “A shot or two would do, but you don’t want to kill ‘im straight-away.”

          “It’s not me, I don’t give a fuck. It’s about… you know… you know who.”

          “You’re a bigger pussy than this son of a bitch. Gimme the stick.”

***

          The young man was let out of the cell and was sitting before the officer. The lamp was too bright, shining right into his eyes, blinding him, and lighting up the purple circles all over his face where he had been beaten. Mother’s patches on his shirt had already been torn. He coughed up blood and moaned. He felt pain in every single bone of his doddered body. They did a good job with the batons.

           “You still say you ate no cake?”

           “I didn’t, I swear!” he cried. The nightstick prodded his ribs.

           “Untie his hands and take him back to the cell.”

           “But, my mother…”

        “Shut up, you slob! Cute little bastard. What, mummy forgot to give ya a breast, ha? Was time fo’ dinner, ha? And ya what - yum on the cake? You chose the wrong cake, little boy, know that? The wrong one, son.”

          RRRING!

          “Police!”

    “Please… help… a girl… she… raped”, a voice spoke dis-continuously in panic.

          “Ma’am, we’ve got a serious crime on our hands here... No patrol can come right now...” He hung up.

          “What’s goin’ on?” Asked the other officer.

          “What do ya think happened? Some little whore got it all over her pussy!” He said scornfully.

        “What’re ya lookin’ at? No more cake for you, sorry. So, tell me your story. How did you do it and why the hell?”

          RRRING!

          “Police!”

          “Officer, there’s been a traffic accident involving a van and a car. Seems the van driver was quite drunk. Five victims, three deaths, one small chi--”

          “Your car crashes are none of my business. Later, if time allows.”

          “Where were we, my dear boy - oh, yes…”

          RRRING!

          Read more...

This website is optimized for viewing in Google Chrome.

Follow The Balkan Writers Project on:
  • Facebook Basic Square