Protests in the Morning

Her pounding heart mirrored the throbs of her feet pounding against the hard, grey pavement. Aching lungs burned from the strain of her run, but Bridget embraced the pain, allowing her head to clear of painful images she hoped to leave behind her. Sun reflects off one of the buildings to shock her eyes with light of the new day. Drips of sweat slide swiftly down her cheek in shifts that went on rhythm with her running. With the continuing rise of the sun, came the fall of her jacket and without without disrupting this constant rhythm, she slides the sleeves off and ties them to her waist. Palpable heat in the air reminds her of warm embraces that used to make her safe, but now ghosts of his touch only haunt her.
People start to fill the parks with their morning strolls and a few come with their cameras to capture the beauty of the morning. Still, most of the air carries a silence that echoed with thoughts Bridget threw out of her head. Minute upon minute builds the sounds and shouts of the city. Crowds emerge around her, forcing her pace to a jog. She tops at the corner for a slight break, heart and feet catching up with her like punches, sending the pounds of blood up through her toes all the way up to her and grasp at her mind to tear away those thoughts of Robert. She clings to deep breaths until walking across the street to a vendor with bottled water among his trinkets. After gulping down most of the liquid, she cuts through trees to a park slightly removed from the chaos of the streets.
However, the shouts grew louder in her ears. Past the green lawn, rose white signs brandished like weapons, hoping to intimidate those coming close. They suffocated the street and police began to blockade them off in some sort of attempt to contain the beginnings of a riot. Against better judgement, she ran through the throng. She wanted to see their faces, see their expressions and question their riotous passion. The more she passed the more she sympathized with them and clenched her fists in similar ardor. An exact cause wasn't apparent to her, nor needed for her, but nevertheless she felt like she was part of something; something that made a little difference in the world.