Yellow Heels

Five seconds. It had taken me five seconds to become a monster.

There's a woman laying in front of me face down, her neck twisted at an odd angle. Blonde hair strewn about covers a portion of her face, but I can still see one eye twisted up towards the sky in fear. Her yellow blazer is covered in blood along with her hands, the right one bent backwards and gripping a handheld camera. Down near her torn pants lays a mustard yellow heel, the other one hanging off her foot. I had complimented those very same heels earlier.

The crowd around me is still screaming, chanting something incomprehensible. I can hear sirens in the distance, but I know they're not for her. It smells like smoke, sweat, and blood. My picket sign is still gripped in my left hand, and the microphone that had been attached to her was still in my right. It had came off so easily, so quickly.

I don't even remember what the protest had been for. All I know is I wanted to be apart of something, to scream and be heard. I wanted to be angry for a purpose, to let my otherwise insignificant presence be known.

When the media showed up, the woman in the yellow heels had made a beeline for me. I was excited to speak with a journalist, and I couldn't contain my excitement as she flashed her press badge with a big grin.

She greeted me, her name and affiliation going in one ear and out the other. I waved my sign for her camera, passionately sharing my opinion as if I was some soapbox preacher. She'd eaten it up, not taking her eyes off of me for a second. I stopped to take a breath.

"I like your heels." I'd said.

She grinned at me even wider, lowering her camera. "Thanks."

Not too long after that she'd moved on to someone else and I rejoined the crowd which had seemingly gotten bigger. Police had arrived by this point, barricading us. The crowd was surging against the panels like a wave, their chanting growing louder. It smelled of anger and desperation. I had began waving my sign even harder, screaming until my throat was sore.

Someone threw a rock. In response a cop maced the front of the crowd. The crowd surged at the barricades, and objects began to fly. Rubber bullets began striking people next to me, and I followed the push of the crowd. I picked up a brick and joined my fellow comrades in the assault, fighting through clouds of tear gas.

At one point I was shoved, stumbling out to the side. Catching my bearings I glanced up, and there she was--yellow heels. She looked panicked, trying to stay hidden at the side of the crowd and pushing her way towards the barricade. I don't know what came over me, but I made my way towards her.

Sweat rolled down my face, eyes burning from the tear gas and clothes torn from the insurgency. The crowd was still screaming and pushing, the police slowly loosing ground. She turned and caught my eye, her own widening as she began to try and move faster from me.

A few steps and I was right behind her, reaching a bloody hand out and grabbing her by the hair. I yanked her back, her cry of pain drowned out by the crowd. Her hands reached back and grabbed my own, digging her nails into my wrist trying to pry loose. I hissed and let go of her, watching her wobble on her heels and fall backwards. She quickly rolled onto her knees and stood, and I lunged forward and grabbed her by the blazer. Her microphone came loose and into my hand as she tried to twist away, screaming for me to stop. I shoved her once more, watching as she once again rolled over and tried to crawl away. Without a second thought I raised my foot and stomped down near the base of her head, feeling the crunch at my heel.

Her body fell, going limp instantly. Blood began to pool out of her mouth and around her. I stood there, breathless and heaving, as the crowd continued to roar around me. No one seemed to notice, or care. Many stepped near or on her, fighting to get to the front.

My throat and hands began to feel numb. It had happened so fast--so casually. My head swam with feelings I cannot describe. All I know is that I am here now, in this moment, staring at a woman I have just murdered.

Five seconds. It had taken me five seconds to become a monster.