Monday, August 6, 2012

A Scream

Nighttime was approaching, and so Rosegrave and I needed to get off the streets soon and find some place to rest for the night. After last night's encounter, it was better if we laid low for sometime before those with coin and paper could throw another get-together. Rosegrave was convinced that it would take forever for the police to find the body of the old man--he was a bit senile and living on the streets after all. However, I was worried. We couldn't afford a name like that to be added to our list and released to the public.

I didn't want to let it get to me, and so I continued towards my destination. I stepped off the curb from the store and looked down at my feet. They were caked in dirt and roughed up completely from the harsh stoned streets. It didn't really hurt anymore, at least.

I walked down the hill, trying not to stumble over the trash and broken bottles. I passed a couple of street vendors, and after saying no to a few children with candy who called me a little pretty lady to see if I would pull out the coinpurse, I saw Rose standing at the corner, reading something on a wall I couldn't see. I ran closer to her, but she did not react, even as I got close enough that my foot rested over her boot.

I held up the bag of cleaning products so she could see, but still she didn't turn. She was reading the wall.

"What is it?" I asked, stepping around. There was nothing inherently unusual about it--barely coherent graffiti was there. Just words strung together by someone who saw an empty wall one night and decided to voice up an opinion.

The walls of the streets always had something. Sometimes it was artistic and large. Most often it was just words. The word "liberty" was repeated a lot, as was the name of our ruler, the mention of gold and petroleum, and a few political issues. This town seemed to be big on "Abortion; Legal." It was everywhere, down three streets. Rosegrave always seemed uninterested by it all, no matter what the issue was, but I found her staring at this graffiti with such a solemn look, and yet such intense concentration, that I wanted to be wrapped by its meaning as well. I squinted my eyes to try to read it.

The two maidens of the red liberate us from those up above the hills.

"It's about us," Rosegrave whispered.

"What?" I said, although I didn't need a repetition, and she did not feel the need to give me one. I looked at it again, and did not feel surprised. Of course it was about us.

Things had been...strange, as of late. We've avoided police, and yet people on the street sometimes turn to us. They see us walking and they stare. Sometimes they bow their heads. Other times, children run up to us and thank us as urged by their parents or onlookers. It's like they know; like they believe it's all for them.

Plus, the country communicates through graffiti in a way it could never do under the watch of the powerful eyes. It was only a matter of time before our services made it to the walls.

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