anya (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homelovefamily) wrote2018-03-08 04:04 pm
homelovefamily) wrote2018-03-08 04:04 pm
[and I recall in spring the perfume that the air would bring]
Founders Day had started so nicely.
Anya had enjoyed the music and merriment, the happiness that so many people seemed to be expressing. While she'd heard a few people express to her that the city wasn't as old as the native population claimed it was. A story that when the first people from the outside came here, there hadn't been any people, that none of this history seemed to match up with that reality. This doesn't surprise her even if it does unsettle, like she has misplaced a page or two.
None of that had lessened the nice start to the day. Cotton candy is a little too sweet, the Founders punch a bit too strong in its sweetness and alcohol for her to finish a cup so she has added a little water and is still carrying it with her as she meanders through the crowd. Darkness is falling and with it a crowd is gathering in the park, laying out blankets and getting ready for the fireworks show that she has heard is coming. There were supposedly fireworks at New Year's Eve, but she had missed them. A childish sort of excitement runs through her at the prospect of seeing fireworks. She hasn't had an occasion to see them since she was a child, the memory lighting up so brightly in her mind. It had been a party, one of the last, with so many beautiful clothes and such lovely music. The nannies had let them watch the fireworks, having been given permission by her father and mother.
She is still looking for a spot with a good view, close enough where she can hear the band when the first bang goes off. Her entire body goes rigid, then instinct takes over as she throws herself to the ground. Another bang, then another, followed by small pops. The scent of gun powder and fire is overwhelming. The crowds' noises of excitement melt into screams, begging, and prayers. Shaking she curls into a ball, hands over her head, tears wetting her cheeks. Everything feels heavy, the light too dim, the open air is confining.
She is back in that cellar. She cannot escape. She will not survive.
The cup that had been in her hand moments ago rolls across the pavement, punch pooling around her feet like blood.
Anya holds herself and prays for the banging to stop. It doesn't.
Anya had enjoyed the music and merriment, the happiness that so many people seemed to be expressing. While she'd heard a few people express to her that the city wasn't as old as the native population claimed it was. A story that when the first people from the outside came here, there hadn't been any people, that none of this history seemed to match up with that reality. This doesn't surprise her even if it does unsettle, like she has misplaced a page or two.
None of that had lessened the nice start to the day. Cotton candy is a little too sweet, the Founders punch a bit too strong in its sweetness and alcohol for her to finish a cup so she has added a little water and is still carrying it with her as she meanders through the crowd. Darkness is falling and with it a crowd is gathering in the park, laying out blankets and getting ready for the fireworks show that she has heard is coming. There were supposedly fireworks at New Year's Eve, but she had missed them. A childish sort of excitement runs through her at the prospect of seeing fireworks. She hasn't had an occasion to see them since she was a child, the memory lighting up so brightly in her mind. It had been a party, one of the last, with so many beautiful clothes and such lovely music. The nannies had let them watch the fireworks, having been given permission by her father and mother.
She is still looking for a spot with a good view, close enough where she can hear the band when the first bang goes off. Her entire body goes rigid, then instinct takes over as she throws herself to the ground. Another bang, then another, followed by small pops. The scent of gun powder and fire is overwhelming. The crowds' noises of excitement melt into screams, begging, and prayers. Shaking she curls into a ball, hands over her head, tears wetting her cheeks. Everything feels heavy, the light too dim, the open air is confining.
She is back in that cellar. She cannot escape. She will not survive.
The cup that had been in her hand moments ago rolls across the pavement, punch pooling around her feet like blood.
Anya holds herself and prays for the banging to stop. It doesn't.