Sirens and the shudder of helicopters filled the air. In the streets people who had been part of the demonstration appeared to be without purpose, huddled in small groups. Freyja overheard mewling sounds of consolation; saw random touches of physical comfort. More interesting subjects, more raw emotion, but instead of photographing them Freyja stowed her camera in her backpack. Enough with the pictures, she wanted out of there.
Despite being subdued, Freyja could feel the anxiety vibrating from the people that crammed the station platform. It wasn’t until the third train she managed to squeeze into a car, her backpack clutched to her chest. The crush of humanity, the sweat she’d worked up from her double-time walk get there, and her inability to reach the buttons to undo her coat made her fell like she was suffocating. Her legs ached, her shoulders were sore and there was a weariness like she’d never felt before even after pulling an all-nighter. It emanated from the core of her being. She wanted to go home, crawl in her parent’s bed as she’d done when she was a toddler, pull the covers over her head and escape. Her soul felt tired.
She was a cynic but beneath her sarcasm and negativity she held out hope – a nebulous optimism people would do better, things would work out, the worst-case scenario would not prevail. Today hope had dissipated like the clouds of teargas. She had glimpses of a fear so profound it stopped her breath. She felt angry and anxious, not specifically but generally. She lost something today. She wanted it back, but somehow knew it would never be returned.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish