The crisp, methodical ding of the bell, synced to the blinking lights. Red. Off. Red. Off. Red. Off. The calm, almost unnervingly slow lowering of the yellow arms. Red. Off. Red. Off. Red. Off.
It would come in quick succession, not quite together but not really separate either. The blast of wind that hit her face, blowing her eyes shut and pulling at the hair she always tied up. The click-click, click-click of metal on metal complementing the rumbling under her feet. The squares of harsh light that morphed her face as they slid by, tangling with the pulsing red glow. Off. Red. Off. Red. Off. Red.
She had been imaging this moment for a very long time. How it would feel, the order of stimuli tingling her senses until it all, presumably, went dark. How it would look, to her and to others standing nearby. Would it be messy? Not that she’d really care; she certainly won’t be the one cleaning up, but what would they do with her afterwards? That uncertainty was a little discomforting.
How would they feel, once they’ve heard?
The wind ended as suddenly as it began, as the roar in her ears receded into silence. With the same calming regularity, the huge yellow arms lifted towards the sky.
Not today, she smiled.
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