The air tasted like dust and smelled like something from Dante – fire and brimstone and suffering. Floors had fallen; walls had shattered; everything had been torn apart.
It had been a shabby, ugly building, what the wealthy elite – well-intentioned and ill-intentioned alike – had considered a prime example of the sort of decayed slums that the city had been reduced to. The moment they saw it coming down, they at once ran their stories, spoke to everyone they could: the building was a disaster waiting to happen, it was only a surprise that the collapse had taken so long, why wasn’t the government letting people knock down or renovate these neighborhoods.
The investigation into the explosion was over as soon as it had started. Neglect, they said. Accidents. Poor maintenance.
Any report that said otherwise was filed either at the bottom of a messy desk or in the garbage.
That a man from Krimhilt Holdings (a company owned by another company, owned by another company, owned by who-even-knows) was seen interfering with the gas and electrics before the blast went unmentioned in the news. Krimhilt’s plan to renovate was applauded.
Nobody asked where the old residents were going to live.
Word Count: 199
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!
(Is anyone else having problems with WordPress sometimes taking up crazy amounts of memory (as in multiple gigabytes) when using their computer? I’d really appreciate some advice.)