She stands in the dark a waif child with the wind whipping through the ribbons in her hair. Distant now are the sounds of the city, sweeping symphonies of greed and lust tucked away neatly inside buildings, stacked high like towers of sand.
She smiles, sweet and sad, red lips wobbling with the effort not to cry and walks on. A teddy is tucked to her side, one of her shoes having misplaced itself when she ran so very far away. No one will come for her she knows. She had a home once but no longer, with her mother laid to rest and no father to speak of. Poor little Sigrid wandering aimlessly past broken windows and doorways that gape like great, hungry mouths. Her nostrils twitch with the scent of sewage but despite her disgust she continues on, limping with one foot elevated higher, eyes closed to the world around her.
There is no silence to be had here, no kiss and a story before she goes to bed. Rather the vicious whispers of old women sat at the curbs and the continuous, jarring sound of an organ, close to her, enough that she could reach with tiny hands to touch the notes, cup them in her hands as fairy friends.
Created: Jul 29, 2010Document Media