A Splatter of Other #Wattys2015

II

I startle into consciousness as the coolness of the water registers. I climb out, and pull the plug the will send the murky water into a water tank outside for the garden, instead of the filter that lets the next person reuse the water. I wrap a towel around my body and hurry to my bedroom. I close the door behind me with a soft click, and rub myself dry. I pull on starchy cotton pyjamas, and pull my hair into a knot, before climbing under the covers and closing my eyes.

I sleep for hours, waking occasionally, but stay mostly in the comforting darkness. When I wake up, I'm shocked to realise it's midday already. I leap up and pad out into the hall and downstairs, where I let out a startled cry of relief when I see Father standing in the kitchen. I throw my arms around him, a sob crawling up my throat as he squeezes me back tightly. He strokes my hair, telling me everything would be okay, and that I needed to go and put on my mourning dress. I pull back and nod, staring up into his face I ask, "Are you really okay, Daddy?"

"I'm fine, Fran, now go change." He kisses my forehead and lets me go. With heavy feet I slouch up the stairs, going into the back of my closet I pull out the black, lacy mourning dress. I pull it on slowly, buttoning the front up to my chin. The fabric was stiff from disuse, and it itches where it shifts from movement. I sit down at my mirror and go about brushing my light grey hair, and pulling it back with hairpins. I dab on a bit of gloss before pinning a white orchid to my chest. I slip white socks on and lace up my black ankle boots. I walk back down the stairs, stopping when I hear the murmuring of my parent's voices.

"...from Evergreen."

"Surely not," Mother replies with a gasp.

"It's only a rumour, but just in case, we should stock up on supplies."

"I suppose that's the wisest decision...I just can't believe it's happening again." Wanting to get as close as I can, I accidently knock against the table, causing the vase to rattle loudly. My parents immediately go silent and I slide into the room, trying to act like I hadn't heard anything.

"Ouch, I bumped into the table coming down the stairs," I give a half-laugh.

"Oh, erm...are you alright?" She is clearly trying to perk up after whatever they'd been talking about.

"Fine. Are we going to the Centre now?" Both of my parents were dressed in mourning clothes, black and white. She holds several rose stems.

"They're yellow," she says now instead, "to represent the colour that has left so many lives today."

I nod, and watch solemnly as Father helps her stand, and takes her arm in his. We walk in silence, and the street fills with other families, some not as large as they were this morning. Several minutes of slow walking find us in the shell of what once was our Centre. The ground has been swept but dust is still in the cracks and scorch marks radiate out from a huge indent near where the Mayors podium has been erected. Families of the council stand on either side, my parents and I join them. I notice that several Councillors are missing. A large crowd stand before me, some crying, others silent, many angry. Behind me, under the cover of the domed aisle that lead to the Town hall, were dozens of injured being treated, in plain view of those before us.

The Mayor of steps up to the microphone and the citizens' roar to life, each voice competing to be heard over another. For a long moment Mayor Grimm allows the noise, then he lifts his hands in a placating manner to silence them. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I know you have many questions," a surge of noise rises to agreement. "But, now is not the time. First, we must address and mourn the loss of twenty-three of our people." A silence washes over the people, and we all listen to what he says next. "I understand that many of you fear being out in the middle of a recent terrorist attack, but let me put your fears to rest. We have over one-hundred loyal men making their rounds in Arrow as we speak, fifty of which surround the Centre itself. We must make a show to these cowards, and let them know that they will not keep us cowering in fear!" We shout in agreement and he smiles. "Which, my good people, is why we are here to commemorate the death of our people so soon after the incident. First, I will name those whose colour has left our world, and while this commencing, I ask that you place your colours by the statue of Saint Margaret, our founder." He pauses, taking out the list of names, then begins in a solemn voice, "Peter Kennedy, Aria Smith, James Porter...."