The Boarding School

Statues and Riots

Thomas Ponde

Three months. How could so much change in three months, Thomas wondered as he ran through a crowd, darting this way and that to not plow into people. The inconsequential city outside of which he lived had grown and not in a good way. Insurgents had figured out it was a good stopping ground right before entrance into DC or other important cities. The feds realized that most illegal movement at some point or another came through the city. So with the intrusion of insurgents and federal enforcement, the quiet city grew loud.

It came to the attention of ANTIFA and ASP members - often one in the same - that the mild place had not yet torn down their monuments of villainous historic characters, including a fireman kneeling in front of a 9-11 bar. Masked protestors armed with wooden clubs, hammers, pepper-spray, and the odd gun marched on the city to meet the crowd of maskless defenders of the memorials and statues.

If anyone were to ask Thomas whose side he was on, he'd yell some incoherent propaganda he'd heard somewhere. His politics were't the reason he was here. His friends shouted nonsense about racial tensions and fascism. Shouts of "f*** the police!" and "No ___, no ___, no ____ USA!" - the blanks being filled by whatever value the person shouting decided to oppose, which differed quite frequently until one voice was loud enough to be joined by others, until a loud mass of voices shouted the same slogan no one understood - filled the air. Thomas joined in when his female friend to his right began shouting the slogan. Her strong feminine voice made his ears tremble. Counter to what one might expect, it was not shrill, but he didn't notice.

With fists in the air, they cried out in mindless unity. Thomas grinned. His chest thumped with excitement. Here, with his friends, it was great to be part of something. To be able to act out in complete passion with no consequence nor condemnation, for there were thousands of your brethren to support you.

Only minutes ago the crowd had been milling about, talking in low voices. The occasional yelling match would attract a small crowd. Thomas had no idea what had excited them to the point of a violent altercation. Perhaps people had enough waiting. Perhaps a yelling match got out of hand and caused a domino effect. All he knew was his black clad brethren and he were running forward.

His friend handed him a ski mask. He threw it over his head and then looked over the others. Being just an inch or so taller than many, he could see where they were headed. The maskless crowd stood directly in front of them ready for the confrontation. Mentally, Thomas hesitated. This was about to go too far. People were about to get hurt. Looking around him, he didn't need to see the faces. The masks were enough to convince him they were ready. His legs, however, had no such conviction and he continued with the crowd, shouting right along. 

The clash was chaos. The black clad protesters pulled the citizens of the city down from where they stood and beat them. Thomas was not close enough to the front to take part in this action, but he would've. He knew he would've and that horrified him; but at this point he was just a ghost in his body, watching as he joined in on every violence around him. 

He could see the police at the edges of the crowd. They weren't doing anything. That was why he was here, he told himself, that was why they were all here. The people who are supposed to do something don't do anything. His friend pressed a rock into his palms. Her eyes smiled at him through the eye-holes in the mask, he knew she was smiling broadly beneath it. He smirked and threw it at the police.

She turned and threw one into a nearby window then handed him another. He grinned and threw his with such force that it, following the others, shattered the entire window. She laughed before being thrown to the ground. "Hey!" he shouted, shoving the offender out of the way, who was quickly swept away by the moving crowd, and grabbed her up. His heart skipped a beat. Falling could mean never getting up.