We Are Collectively Wrong

Firecracker

Firecracker

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It was funny. At times she had the hardest time remembering what had happened, but sometimes it was all too clear in her head. Sometimes it was like a video on repeat, looping again and again in her mind, but more often it was cloudy, fuzzy, a pixelated blur that only served to make her more anxious for what was to come.

Even so, there were details that never went away. Like the feeling of fog, a cold that seeped into her body, no matter how many layers of sweaters and coats she had on, penetrating even the absurdly thick wool cap that she could remember wearing. It was a chill that never left her, even now, when she stood in the sweltering heat on an August afternoon and happened to get a flash of the memory.

She shivered, and tried not to think about it. Tried to focus, instead, on the glamour of the city's towering spires that stretched up toward the sky and crowded it with shining metal, glittering in the sunlight. Tried to think about the mounting excitement of seeing her brother, Nikolai, who was allowed to come home the following evening for the first time in four years.

But the memory was too heavy for her, the weight pulled her away from reality and wouldn't let her return.

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The lights had been bright, the air freezing cold, and the atmosphere of the event had felt joyful, children chattering away about the event they'd been waiting for so many months. She was excited too, her mittened hand clutching her Father's tightly, the rest of her body squirming in anticipation for what was to come. She saw her friend Viktor standing near her, looking just as excited as her, his eyes bright and his whole body quivering. They were the same age-six years old-and she knew he felt too old to be holding his parent's hands, although she never minded it. She scanned the crowd as best she could to find her sister, who had come to the parade with her friends, but there was no sign of Anastasia.

"Ellana, look!" She felt the soft breath of her father in her ear. She looked over at him and smiled at how nice a dad he was. Always a grin on his face, always a sparkle in his eyes. He was pointing towards the horizon, where Ellana could just make out what must be the parade, a smattering of lights, like firecrackers, coming closer to them and the crowd of people. She felt her father scoop her up and perch her bundled up self on his shoulders to give her a better view.

"Daddy, they haven't ever done this before, have they?" Ellana cried gleefully, listening to the delicious popping of the firecrackers and watching the beautiful flashes.

Her father was silent. "Daddy?" She said again, and tapped his cheek, leaning over him to see his face.

When he spoke, his voice was hard and urgent. "Ellana, I'm going to put you down, and you're going to run away from the people. Go towards the bushes by the shore. I'll be there in a moment with your sister." He set her on the ground before she knew what was happening and looked her squarely in the eyes. "I don't expect you to understand, but I need you to go. Now."

She felt indignant for a moment, that she would miss out on the fun, but she saw the cold solemness in his face, and knew that this was serious. She felt the need to hug him, and she did, one long squeeze, breathing deep her father's smell of peppermint and burnt sugar that always lingered on his clothes.

Then she stumbled away through the crowd and crouched in the tall, reedy bushes by the lakeside as her father had told her to, but all she could think of was the horrible churning feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't identify.

Then, Ellana heard a scream. And realized that the firecrackers from the parade were probably not firecrackers at all. Then she heard another shriek, and then another, and then she realized what she was feeling.

It was fear.

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The Lakeside Massacre, as it was called-which sounded to Ellana like a cheap horror film similar to the ones she saw on her vidscreen from a few decades ago, before holographic theaters had been invented-was an overwhelming tragedy to the people of the Anglo-Russian Confederacy. Seven hundred and eighty four people had been killed, and another thousand had been injured out of the six thousand person crowd.

Apparently it had been planned. Two hundred terrorists had infiltrated the parade, armed with machine guns. Interviews with the leaders that Ellana saw again and again on the news all had them repeating the same thing.

"We'd planned to kill more."

All Ellena knew was that her father had never come back with her sister. Ellana waited, that night, cold and alone in the reeds and tried not to think that the sound in the distance were gunshots, or of Viktor, who had hobbled after Ellana with a badly bleeding leg, because he had seen her run away but hadn't reacted in time to save himself. He died next to her, in the bushes, and she, a panicked child, ran away from her hiding spot ran without stopping to her house. By that time the police had the situation under control, but she would never forget the stench of the streets that invaded her senses until she wanted to gag, the smell of burnt metal and the echoes of a thousand dying screams.

Ellana had returned to her home, where her mother and brother had been the whole time. She had hugged them each in turn, and then twice again, then been placed in bed with a hot water bottle. Had been told again and again what a brave girl she was, that Father and Ana were sure to turn up, and had finally gone to sleep, dreaming of peppermints and sugar, of blood and screams.

Now she stood, squinting up through the sunlight at the massive towers of the city. Ellana took a deep breath and turned around, looking back at her house, but she thought that out of the corner of her eye she saw a firecracker burst on the horizon.

When she turned around, there was nothing there.

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A/N- Another whim, I'm afraid, though this one was feverishly conceived, planned, and typed out in the space of about forty-five minutes. I've been calling it a 'very very short short storyish thing', or maybe it's just better to call it a whim. >.<

Thoughts? :)