Flashing lights and a blaring siren.
Screams and crying.
The sound of death.
____________________________________
The blustering wind filled the streets of the Long Island village that she lived in. Snow was drifting down softly, covering the streets and pathways in a thin blanket of white, coating the icicles that hung from the frozen gutters, empty despite promises of use. Most people were shut up inside their houses, enjoying a night of holiday movies with friends and family.
Not her.
Trudging past the dark storefronts, memories flooded her mind of a much easier time. A time of ice cream, sunny days and the clear nights, with the cricket's chirping their melodious song. An era of peace and tranquility, a distant, far off place where one could go down to one's friend house without the fear of being attacked, hurt or even worse.
That was the time of her childhood.
But of course, with stagnant beliefs comes death, and humanity fears death; probably more than they fear themselves. With the changing age comes different beliefs, different morals. Guns and violence are far more prevalent which would cause more fear and pain then before. The wrath of one person would lead to the death of another. In today's society, no one is safe.
The women clutched a wreath of flowers in one hand. Nothing extravagant though, for her meek salary could not afford the likes of such gifts at this time. Her auburn hair whipped around her face in a storm, occasionally blocking her crystal blue eyes from view. The button nose that rested at the center of her face, like her lips, was sharply turning bright red from the cold, but she did not feel the pain. She had long ago gotten over such a meaningless emotion. The wrinkles around her eyes told her story. Restless nights filled with no sleep, nightmares that plagued those few precious hours of sleep that she did get. All repetitious, all showing her the truth that she had already knew yet could not find a way to reconcile or forget. For the truth can never go away.
The truth can be an evil thing when found in the wrong way.
Stepping past the wrought iron gate, she once again began her journey. The pathway here was not as cleared as the main street, causing her every step to be knee deep in snow. Water seemed in through her boots and socks, her pants soaked to her skin. The cold was good; it kept her awake at this late an hour. A tree rustled nearby and the woman heard it but paid no attention to such a thing, simply tossing the noise off as a bird or squirrel returning to their respective homes, as she should have been.
Stopping in front of a rock, seemingly insignificant in a field full of them, she wiped her hair from her face. The snow had long since stopped, leaving an eerie quiet to this forsaken place. Tired, lonely, the women felt what she had dreaded for the entire journey escaping.A droplet fell from her chin, followed by another, slowly becoming a small stream of drops. Falling to her knee's in the snow, the women let out a loud, strangled cry as she looked at the picture, which seemed to look back at her. Smiling, trying to comfort her at this hard time.
The first holiday without him.
Here lay her son.
Another cause of the unnecessary violence.
Another life, gone.
Screams and crying.
The sound of death.
____________________________________
The blustering wind filled the streets of the Long Island village that she lived in. Snow was drifting down softly, covering the streets and pathways in a thin blanket of white, coating the icicles that hung from the frozen gutters, empty despite promises of use. Most people were shut up inside their houses, enjoying a night of holiday movies with friends and family.
Not her.
Trudging past the dark storefronts, memories flooded her mind of a much easier time. A time of ice cream, sunny days and the clear nights, with the cricket's chirping their melodious song. An era of peace and tranquility, a distant, far off place where one could go down to one's friend house without the fear of being attacked, hurt or even worse.
That was the time of her childhood.
But of course, with stagnant beliefs comes death, and humanity fears death; probably more than they fear themselves. With the changing age comes different beliefs, different morals. Guns and violence are far more prevalent which would cause more fear and pain then before. The wrath of one person would lead to the death of another. In today's society, no one is safe.
The women clutched a wreath of flowers in one hand. Nothing extravagant though, for her meek salary could not afford the likes of such gifts at this time. Her auburn hair whipped around her face in a storm, occasionally blocking her crystal blue eyes from view. The button nose that rested at the center of her face, like her lips, was sharply turning bright red from the cold, but she did not feel the pain. She had long ago gotten over such a meaningless emotion. The wrinkles around her eyes told her story. Restless nights filled with no sleep, nightmares that plagued those few precious hours of sleep that she did get. All repetitious, all showing her the truth that she had already knew yet could not find a way to reconcile or forget. For the truth can never go away.
The truth can be an evil thing when found in the wrong way.
Stepping past the wrought iron gate, she once again began her journey. The pathway here was not as cleared as the main street, causing her every step to be knee deep in snow. Water seemed in through her boots and socks, her pants soaked to her skin. The cold was good; it kept her awake at this late an hour. A tree rustled nearby and the woman heard it but paid no attention to such a thing, simply tossing the noise off as a bird or squirrel returning to their respective homes, as she should have been.
Stopping in front of a rock, seemingly insignificant in a field full of them, she wiped her hair from her face. The snow had long since stopped, leaving an eerie quiet to this forsaken place. Tired, lonely, the women felt what she had dreaded for the entire journey escaping.A droplet fell from her chin, followed by another, slowly becoming a small stream of drops. Falling to her knee's in the snow, the women let out a loud, strangled cry as she looked at the picture, which seemed to look back at her. Smiling, trying to comfort her at this hard time.
The first holiday without him.
Here lay her son.
Another cause of the unnecessary violence.
Another life, gone.