It would never leave her; never go away.
She wasn’t even from that country, just a visitor. Just someone passing through. Nothing else. At a distance, safely peering through an office window, she watched. Now she carries the images with her wherever she goes. They are always there. It is her own private hell. So many sleepless nights. So many abrupt wakenings. She never speaks of it. Why would she want to describe the events of that day, or discuss the rights or the wrongs of it?
Despite any human failings these people had succumbed to, each of them were as innocent as the day they were born. Who were they? They were just people going about their daily business; office workers, managers, cleaners, delivery people, maintenance workers, or like her, merely visitors to the place where it happened. Whoever they were, for her, they were always there.
Falling silently… dropping to the ground.
