The carotid burst; blood mixed in haste with the soapy water. Charlotte was standing by the window, defiant, stunned. Then it came, death, and the itch went away forever.
"A moi, ma chere amie!"
The dagger in his chest rose and fell one last time.
She smiled cruelly. So did history, for the idea that Marat's scabbed and stabbed bust could replace crucifixes, that death could turn him into a God, escaped her.
by Tanuj Solanki of Bombay