Apparently the solace of the morning without new blood was not enough to save everyone in the town. As each day passed and the body count increased, the atmosphere in City Hall grew more tense. Not a soul could be found in the townsquare outside of the City Hall. Not one person dared to walk to the streets of Sholle after yesterday's incident. A youth typical of the rebellious mindset with piercing's punctuating his face, multicolored hair more vibrant than a rainbow, and a black and white shirt with his favorite band "Pottymouth" walked into the City Hall. His presence in the days preceding had been minimal, his contributions fairly nonexistent. He kept quiet counsel, scanning the crowd's faces for anything odd hoping he could be that one that did something different. Hoping that he could be one to find a clue linked to Jonathan's murder. He found nothing. The days passed and his mere presence intensified the animosity in the room. He was too different, too rebellious and it made people nervous.
His appearance isolated him to a corner with a bench. He sat there in solitude watching men, women, young and old, ugly and beautiful, spit saliva as they shouted at each other until their faces were red. Their emotions were running high, he noticed. At a particularly fervent and emotional juncture, he stood up, mumbled something under his breath and began to walk towards the exit pulling a chain out of his pocket. This action only exacerbated the anger in the crowd.
A man stepped foward grabbing the youth by his collar only to scream in pain clutching his hand. The youth's necklace had cut his palm. By this time the blood had entered the water. Their eyes turned to the youth, their anger focused on a central figure, on the skull toilet insignia of his shirt. He stuttered and stammered to say something, anything to prevent them from encroaching further on his rapidly dwindling personal space he had come to cherish. He watched the crowd encircle his position. Their faces of pure animosity seared into the back of his retinas. Words struggled to come out of his mouth, and when push came to shove he realized he did not want to stand out in a crowd. His heart beat slowed, his stomach dropped, his mouth filled with cotton. Before he could raise his arms in defense, a chair came crashing down on his head snapping into hundreds of jagged pen sized splinters. He looked up at his attacker, blood gushing out of the top of his skull. The blood stained the white skull on his shirt and soaked his pants. His right ear had filled with blood, making it very difficult to hear. His hair was a mixture of black and red, the colors muted by the blood. One woman picked up a splinter. A second man picked up a splinter and shouted
"Did you kill them!?"
The youth turned to the dampened, inaudible noise. Maybe it was the blood, or the chair, or something else entirely whatever the cause he didn't understand the man's shout. Fatigued by the loss of blood he stared at the crowd with a combination of perplexed and agonizing glances incapable of saying a word due to his fear and his injury.
The woman stepped forward, plunging her splinter into the fountain of blood. Next the man placed his splinter in the boy's neck. The stabbing only stopped until everyone in the crowd filled their appetite.
Hours passed until his mother came to identify the body. She rushed through the grand oak doors, past the crowd, and fell onto his body. She clutched his head to her breasts. A constant stream of tears only ebbed by the mother's visceral cries and damnations of God fell on the boy.
"He was a good kid!" she moaned with the full capacity of her lungs. "He was just different!"
After several minutes her tear ducts finally dried and the grief stricken mother faced the crowd with swollen, red eyes.
"When will this stop?"
pieceofpecanpie,
, lynched Day 3!
Night 3 ends Wednesday April 4, 2012 at 10:00 PM Eastern Standard Time.
