Above The Riot, In Flat 403

Raindrops slice through swollen eyelids as I prop myself against a printing shop’s gritty wall opposite to the, now completely alight, police station. Each thud of my sunken heart remains the only reminder of reality while I patrol every ripple of smoke greeting the failed summer’s air. A delusional part of me believed the downpour of rain could be enough to erase the fire altogether. I stand corrected. Hues of vicious red, whispered yellow and manipulating peach peel back wallpaper to bite at the hidden corners of interrogation rooms. The tips of my poorly painted nails tap upon concrete inches deep in a puddle, numbed knees flush from the smack of winds, sandal covered toes point to the sky in despair. Tendrils of dirt coated hair tickle my dripping brows and lashes, as rioters bust through the roaring streets. Meanwhile, my violet lips release a grim whimper of utter astonishment; my pale skin growing grey the more walls the fire tears down.  

When the protests began at 10 o’clock this morning, all seemed peaceful, even hopeful. I started the day cheering from my living room window as I sipped black tea and waited for the news coverage on such a pivotal moment. My body tumbled from my porch steps around midday to join Frankie, one of my best friends, in support of the movement. I’ve known a revolution of sorts has been a long time coming, and I couldn’t be more prepared. Yet, once nighttime fell, protestors left and in their place rioters swarmed, while Frankie vanished from sight. A city stood united during sun rays only to decay when the chill of darkness emerges. 

Footsteps appear to the left of my peripheral vision and, before I can take a look at who approaches, a jet black bulldog nuzzles its head beneath my arm. He stares up at me in excitement, while my gaze follows the length of the chewed up green lead to find a girl my age furrowing her brows at the blaze. Her hood hangs idle from the back of her head, allowing specs of earth’s tears to bathe the reddened skin of her face. 

“Please tell me the fire brigade are aware of the burning police station?” She murmurs. The beams of flames illuminate the caramel skin of the mystery girl, but my mind is too busy suffocating to grasp her features. 

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” I answer, removing my gaze from her to focus more on the scurry of livid citizens. 

“I can’t wait to hear what Thatcher has to say about this.” She states, sarcasm polluting each syllable. I widen chocolate eyes at her snarky comment, all too delighted she’s managed to lighten the situation at hand. A boisterous laugh emits from the smirk of my lips while the chunky bulldog paws at my thigh, 

“What's his name?” I ask. 

“Ron…and I’m Stella.” She answers reaching her hand out for me to shake. 

My giggling fails to cease at the name given to the overzealous pup. His eyelids fall lazily in reaction to my fingertips scratching at his matted fur behind drowning ears. The severity of the fire lies forgotten in the back of my mind as my heart fills from the love of a strangers dog. 

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Edie.” I send her a tender smile. 

“Would you like to come to mine for a hot chocolate and-or safety from th- well the- whatever this is?” She offers, waving her fingers at the scene with a furrowed brow. 

“Yes please.” 

Stella’s home is quirky and small just like her. Posters of Bob Dylan and John Lennon cover the walls of her living room, and curtains hang between frames instead of doors, in her flat. Candles messily decorate the countertops in each room, a vinyl player spins relentlessly, and joints lay unrolled atop of her coffee table. Ron’s bed is nowhere to be seen and when I asked about it she replied with, “he’s more human than the fuckers working in government…he deserves to share the couch and bed with me.” Which I didn’t hesitate to agree with. So, once the drinks were made, he plonked himself down on the middle cushion of the couch while we sat either side. Every other minute his nose would snuggle into my thigh for comfort, while Stella’s fingers massaged the now dried fur of his back. 

It has only been an hour since we met, yet Stella and I have managed to share political views as well as tearing up over John’s passing. With most of my friends having known me since school, it felt strange but good, to have a fresh set of ears taking in my every word. The radio plays in the background with a news broadcaster informing us of each step the rioters take. Stella pokes through her diary in order to find a free day in her schedule, so she can show me the ‘groovy’ place she found to roller-skate. 

“Okay, so, I’m practically free every day after next week for the summer. I suppose teaching art to kids comes in handy once the summer holidays come around.” She states giddily, childishly bopping her shoulders and I join in with a chuckle.

“Okay cool, how about next Saturday then? We can get fish and chips afterwards.” I offer still managing to hear distance screams, of the angered public, over the radio and an Elton John record. 

“It’s a deal.” 

We bump knuckles before preparing a joint to share with each other; Stella is determined to roll it to perfection while I yank snacks from her top cupboards. Throughout the night we eat, smoke, dance, sing and block out the noise of shattered windows, as well as turning the volume on the vinyl player louder at the sound of sirens. Stella demands I sleepover, too worried to allow me to walk home, and I reply with a salute and cheeky, ‘aye aye captain!’ 

My eyes fell to a soft close and my limbs gave into immediate slumber. Stella, Ron and I sleep without a single worry of the state of the city, or what consequences we would face once dawn strikes. All feels serene though, in flat 403, during the early hours of the morning…