Domestic Abuse

There was once a girl who lived in a city that she loved very much.

The city had been battered and bruised, but with the past 15 years the bruises had been yellowing and fading. For many they were a story, a distant past no longer relevant or present in their lives.
But then one day things changed.
Some people started staying out late at night and holding up the traffic.

The policemen stood on the streets day and night, accepting all manner of missiles thrown at them. The ugly bruises and scars that had been buried in a shallow grave resurfaced in a blur of red, white, blue and yellow. 

Fire.

Fires across the city, contained in little bottles, raging on public busses and inside wheelie bins smatter the news bulletins;
unable to be extinguished by the tears of the girl who lived in this city.
But still she cried.

She cried from frustration, that years of peace had not been enough for people. That there is still discontent simmering under the skin of this place.

She cried as she watched her city held to ransom by people let down by the system. She sighed deeply in bewilderment but not disbelief, that a small piece of cloth could cause so much heartache.
She cried for the people who had missed the memo that this place was going places, it was on the map, the tourists were coming, there would be new jobs.

And tonight she prays that the damage is not irreconcilable.