It was the wake of a revolution. Dead, naked, bodies of the rich were strewn across the street. Murdering them was not enough apparently — we needed to humiliate them. Just like how they humiliated us, looking down upon their high and mighty chair — judging who lives, who dies, who gets to eat, and who doesn’t. It was nothing short of poetry. Sweet, beautiful, taste of revenge. At least that’s what we thought, judging by how we pissed over them, drank atop their lifeless materials, grinning ears to ears.
It didn’t matter anyhow — this was an event, so carefully planned, to the smallest of details, that we couldn’t help but celebrate over, once it succeeded. And it DID succeed. Hundreds of years of control, generations of careless humiliation, of not being thought off as equals — trumped over in one day. One, bloody, day.
There was a grand building. Opening the door, I went inside the most beautiful architecture I had ever seen. Full of gold and white coloring, the most exquisite chandelier, and, hell, even the door handle was fancy.
This was when the thought hit me. Who’s going to live here, now? Surely the people deserve it — after all, we were the ones who built it, not them. Surely, we deserve all the riches in the world, because after all, we have worked hard to get where we are now. Surely, I deserve to live here.
On the other side of the door, I then wondered, what now?
