It was Angélique's voiceoh, that voice, a flat, toneless instrument of fatethat delivered the news, a brief, furtive summons from the abyss, a mere handful of seconds to pronounce this utterly absurd, this cruelly meaningless judgment.
A love triangle, twisted and perverse; friendships, mere charades, hollow and reeking of hypocrisy; fleeting, feverish embraces; the stain of prostitution; the ultimate despair of suicideit is here, in the very heart of Kinshasa, that monstrous maw, that city which, it is said, devours its own children with a ravenous hunger, that the interwoven threads of these wretched destinies are unraveled.
And he who now takes up the penhe too, a captive of his own inner demons, tormented by the ceaseless struggle of opposing forces that tear at his very beinghe strives, with trembling hand, to find some semblance of equilibrium in this chaos. It is with letters of blood, one might say, with the very essence of suffering distilled into ink, that he will attempt to chronicle the fate of those who have vanished, those who have irrevocably crossed the threshold into the realm of the forever lost.
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