The black sludge, Shannon Vega figured, was likely a mix of leaves that had rotted along with the emulsified remains of any papers or cardboard litter accumulated in the bottom of the deep, dry, brick fountain. It had long ago ceased to stink, though she suspected if she gave into a temptation to chuck something into it, to disturb the gelled surface, it would belch something rancid into the still air of the tiny little mall. She met her temptation halfway, and brushed some leaves from the edge into the basin, where they stuck promptly to the top of the sludge and refused to sink.
As malls went, this one was indeed extremely small, exactly, in fact, the size of a cotton warehouse. Most parking garages were larger by several stories and half a block. It had previously featured a large plexiglass dome over the center fountain, though multiple hailstones and new gunshots had broken all of the panes. Finches, distressed at Shannon’s presence, continued their twittering, chatty evacuation of the center room. Their wings were mini thunderclaps in the building, bringing life to the memory of an ancient sound.
The mall was three stories high, and all around the broad stairways, boarded up storefronts stood like crypts in a mausoleum. They memorialized a plan one Chamber of Commerce had to save the dying little farming town. To Shannon, the abandoned building memorialized something else. She lifted her camera and snapped a short series of shots of the flaking signs. Many were gone entirely, but the bolt-holes left behind still spelled out the names anyway. Hair Barn, Nail Glam, Boots Made for Walking. The proud spot at the short end of the building, opposite the entrance, had been a rare multi-story Wallblue’s. The nearest one to the town now was forty minutes by car. She’d stopped in that one to pick up extra batteries for her camera.
Shannon began her grim climb up toward her target, her ears almost visibly twitching every time a bird, raccoon, or just particularly ill-timed falling detritus made a crash in the scrub that had grown from the mall gardens. In time, perhaps, the little maples reaching up for the broken dome might make it out. For now, however, it had to compete with the ivy that had gone mad in a search for anyone and anything to strangle. The floor in most places was still quite sound, and begging Shannon to pause were the scrawlings of the town’s teenaged previous population. Occasionally she obliged, finding some comfort in the crude declarations of lust, love and conquest that peppered among the more distressing words.
At the very top of the mall, she unholstered her bag from her shoulders, and sought the wall she came here for. For a long while, her solemn eyes roamed over the tableau. It had been done with brush strokes, instead of the sharpies and spray paint below, and was, mostly, a list of fifteen names, each with a number for an age inscribed after it. A rotting mass of silk flowers and chunks of burned down candles lay at its feet. Beside them, Shannan placed her bag, opened it, and let the camera hang heavy as an albatross from her neck as she pulled out the can of white enamel spray paint. The clattering sounds of bones echoed through the stricken building as she shook up the marble inside the can.
With one hand on her camera, and the other on her paint can, she hesitated. The words at the top of the memorial were at the bottom of her list of expungement, scraping the name of her father from the face of the earth as best as one woman could. She could take a photo, here. She could capture the words “On August 15, 2017, Gregory Wilcox opened fire on...” She made her decision, and lifted up her hand. With the disapproving hiss of a snake, the spray can struck his name from the memorial. At last, with her other, she took a picture of the glistening streak of pure white paint.
As malls went, this one was indeed extremely small, exactly, in fact, the size of a cotton warehouse. Most parking garages were larger by several stories and half a block. It had previously featured a large plexiglass dome over the center fountain, though multiple hailstones and new gunshots had broken all of the panes. Finches, distressed at Shannon’s presence, continued their twittering, chatty evacuation of the center room. Their wings were mini thunderclaps in the building, bringing life to the memory of an ancient sound.
The mall was three stories high, and all around the broad stairways, boarded up storefronts stood like crypts in a mausoleum. They memorialized a plan one Chamber of Commerce had to save the dying little farming town. To Shannon, the abandoned building memorialized something else. She lifted her camera and snapped a short series of shots of the flaking signs. Many were gone entirely, but the bolt-holes left behind still spelled out the names anyway. Hair Barn, Nail Glam, Boots Made for Walking. The proud spot at the short end of the building, opposite the entrance, had been a rare multi-story Wallblue’s. The nearest one to the town now was forty minutes by car. She’d stopped in that one to pick up extra batteries for her camera.
Shannon began her grim climb up toward her target, her ears almost visibly twitching every time a bird, raccoon, or just particularly ill-timed falling detritus made a crash in the scrub that had grown from the mall gardens. In time, perhaps, the little maples reaching up for the broken dome might make it out. For now, however, it had to compete with the ivy that had gone mad in a search for anyone and anything to strangle. The floor in most places was still quite sound, and begging Shannon to pause were the scrawlings of the town’s teenaged previous population. Occasionally she obliged, finding some comfort in the crude declarations of lust, love and conquest that peppered among the more distressing words.
At the very top of the mall, she unholstered her bag from her shoulders, and sought the wall she came here for. For a long while, her solemn eyes roamed over the tableau. It had been done with brush strokes, instead of the sharpies and spray paint below, and was, mostly, a list of fifteen names, each with a number for an age inscribed after it. A rotting mass of silk flowers and chunks of burned down candles lay at its feet. Beside them, Shannan placed her bag, opened it, and let the camera hang heavy as an albatross from her neck as she pulled out the can of white enamel spray paint. The clattering sounds of bones echoed through the stricken building as she shook up the marble inside the can.
With one hand on her camera, and the other on her paint can, she hesitated. The words at the top of the memorial were at the bottom of her list of expungement, scraping the name of her father from the face of the earth as best as one woman could. She could take a photo, here. She could capture the words “On August 15, 2017, Gregory Wilcox opened fire on...” She made her decision, and lifted up her hand. With the disapproving hiss of a snake, the spray can struck his name from the memorial. At last, with her other, she took a picture of the glistening streak of pure white paint.
Originally published on Reddit.
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