Everyone needs a hero.
So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.
Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.
The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.
Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–
Hollow.
Vacant.
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The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.
Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.
A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.
Where there was none.
The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.
Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.
In perfect sync.
Unthinking.
And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.
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The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.
A crowd of dedicated to service.
One which continued its mechanical cheers.
Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.
His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.
Features affixed.
The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.
To the same, unseen rhythm.
Their faces–his.
Sunken. Pale. Stoic.
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Silence.
The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.
As one.
Staring.
At —
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When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!
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