Two men in suits walked around the second level of the Rotunda.
“Senator, I just want to prepare you,” said Jameson. “The Capital is mobbed with press downstairs. Ever since the story broke about Blackridge, well… I strongly advise you not to make any comments. Now, if you’ll just take a look at this press release our office…”
“I never bother to look up anymore,” mused Senator Mertle, cutting off his young colleague.
“What?” asked Jameson.
“The frescos in the dome. When I was first elected, I used to marvel at their beauty. I felt like I was a part of something larger. I felt like I would make history.”
The old man sighed.
“So much has changed.”
“Yes, right. Now they’re going to eat you alive on this scandal if we don’t do some major damage control so I suggest…”
* * *
Jameson woke the next morning to the gruesome image of his client’s body, swinging from a rope tethered to the balcony railing in the Capital building. The figures painted in the frescos looked on at the remains of the disgraced politician.
Jameson closed his eyes. Senator Mertle had made history, just not the way he ever intended.
[This is my entry this week into the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. A photo prompt is given and writers are encouraged to create a short story of 100 – 150 words, + or – 25 words.]