Urchin
Urchin sad stories
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dusk_
dusk_Weird girl who spends to long reading
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A depressing view of life and our attention to those who need it.

Urchin

A soft hue settles over the city, the grey tarmac submerged by a thick layer of the muddy remanence, once a pure blanket of snow.

A sad light spills in a messy fashion from a series of beaten down lamps; hanging neglected from the surrounding buildings.

The streets stretch out ahead, a labyrinth of almost silent tunnels consuming the wilderness.

The few inhabitants out this late, squabbling their disappointing prospects; so caught up in their own ‘superior’, ‘unique’ lives,

that they barely notice the dainty child sprinting across the road.

She is small, so thin, you could split her bones with a jostle, a mane of ragged auburn curls form a messy halo around slight figures.

Her clothes are torn to shreds, mud caking her arms and face alike to a second skin.

A street urchin they would call her, disregarding her rights to emotions, suffering, as you would a cockroach, scuttling across your garage floor.

Slipping down the numerous side streets, she reads the crumbling buildings like a map, winding her way to the sorry destination called home.

The towering apartments are cracked with age, many of the windows boarded across; the remainder, clouded with dust, dirt and somewhat mysterious, questionable substances.

A ragged curtain gives the only resemblance of a door, revealing nothing but the grim reminence of a dodgy backyard sale and numerous preyed upon dumps.

She slips past, soft on her feet as she avoids the heap of limbs lain across the sofa, though shrouded with a coarse blanket,

it is obvious what has occurred -the unfortunate outcome of many a late night- and the girl daren’t awaken them in such a drunken state.

Instead, scaling to the cramped attic above her, form finally relaxes, allowing her breathing to slow to somewhat normal pace.

The room around her is cramped, a single mattress pushed up to the far wall, numerous posters disguising the torn, rotting wallpaper.

A single window, high up on the wall, is plastered with shattered planks, only allowing the moonlight to taste the scenery; dancing through the attic in shallow waves.

Slumping down onto the pile of springs and thread, her fingers scrape at the seams of her pockets, piecing together a single pound.

It’s been a good day.

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