She sits with herself since the attack, with no work to do but fall apart. At first she raged and writhed with her losses. The fire burst on her and tore at her, hungry and drunk on its own power. The heat quickly undressed her. Flames careened down her halls, banging on doors and smashing windows with fists. The door to the stairs was heavy, thick metal and glass built to withstand this very battle. “Keep this door shut against fire” engraved on a plate. Live in this neighborhood, you best have a plan. Fire seethed and roiled in place for a time, building its strength to just blow this shit up.
Someone was watching. And did the right thing.
Firefighters arrived on the scene bearing the weapon that trumps fire. They went to war and eventually won.
Then they all left.
Conversations were had. Some laden with grief. Others voiced the reality. No money. We leave it.
Laid nearly bare, stinking and scorched she stands alone.
For a time there are others who arrive almost daily. Scavengers ripping out fixtures and fittings and furniture. They need them, want them, and she doesn’t. No matter.
This is what happens. The natural order of things that have fallen, by choice or by chance or divine intervention.
Attacked. Abandoned. Stripped by the scavengers. Falling silent. So very slowly crumbling and peeling backwards in time. If you look closely beauty arises. Light shines on darkness.
Darkness gives way revealing galaxies floating in the black of decay.
It all falls to ruin. It has to.
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