At the beginning, when scream of siren pierced through sky before dawn, there used to be resistance, brawls and mocking of the soldiers, who tried to drag unwilling citizens out of their beds. However, all it took was to gun down one grumpy large man into what looked like a bloody pork sack. Then, every piece of obedience, the soldiers or their commanders asked for , fell into place.
Though the siren hadn't broken the night yet, in the square, where they were supposed to assemble every morning and spend most of the day there for so called morality and discipline training, there were already people. And more were arriving. They didn't 't come early to please the army, or to show their respect, and it was not out of terror either. They came voluntarily because it was the only choice now they were entitled --- wake up by yourself instead of being shocked out of yourself by the deafening sound.
Under the yellow glows of streetlamps, the whole place was dim but everything was transparent and so peaceful. Nobody bothered to talk. All they did was staring into the distance, took in all the morning cool breeze that they were free to breathe in, and lost in the memories of merely 5 days before, which seemed too far away and desirable to be real.
Those were days when they had errands to run, daily chores to take care of, fellows' backs to stab, and fellows' throat to cut . What then felt like pains in the neck now seemed so sweet, that they made the present even bitter. Oh, gee. What they used to stab back for, now, seemed completely meaningless and ridiculous. How did it come to this point?
Yes, some people pissed them off. They waged the war before they knew how to clean the mess afterwards. They planted the bomb. And some one dropped the ball. Always there was some one dropping the ball.
But not us! We never asked for these! Who the hell those angry psychos thought they were, making us pay for some one else's adolescent rebelliousness?
The first light appeared in the night sky, as if a drop of milk was mixed into the pool of blue ink. At the same time rang the piercing siren, waking up everyone in the square from their memories. Came again the day of being a walking dead. Most of them consoled themselves silently. All the misery would develop into a habit, and the taste of freedom would be long forgotten. Hell, it never tasted sweet when it was abundant.
The only thing they could not let go was just a question?
How come it was so fragile? Didn't it take generations to fight for it? Shouldn't the extinction of it be at least a generation away?
Butterfly's wings. Once touched . Never get off the ground.
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