Blissful morning turned to unacquainted mourning. Bright
sunlight peering around the historic bell towers and dreaming spires soon to be quashed by a
blanked of eerie silence; eerie yet respectful, yet voyeuristic, yet nothing.
The silence only punctuated by two sounds; the sound of life exiting from a
height and sirens. The harsh rupture of one seemed to mute the latter. That or
the shock surrounding my bones sought to protect my human mind from the
realisation of reality. Shock comforted me like a mother comforts a child for a
fraction of a second and an eternity all at once. Then shock loosened its
maternal grip; plunging me into the blood-bath surrounding his head that his
forest green jumper attempted to mop up from the previously sun-kissed ground –
now cold.
It’s like I'm the only person that can see the chalk outline
on the floor. It’s like I'm the only passer-by to feel a ghost in the tower
haunting my every working day. I trace around it with a wide berth and shed a
tear. I stand a meter from the site. I take a view point and sob further.
Crying uncontrollably is saved for buses and other public areas. The foetal
position is reserved for my bed with the light on.
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