From the shadows at the top of the staircase I could see the fireworks reflecting in the lens of her black spectacles, almost smell the starch on her featureless, grey uniform.
‘Liberation Day’ they hailed it. Liberated from the now elitist burdens of freedom, choice and democracy.
My sister was too young to understand as they looked out over the city together. But I knew what our mother had done – what all those of newly acquired status had done. It was in that moment that our future fates were formally and fatally entwined: I would have to kill her.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challen