I have no idea how long we are here now. Hours? A day? Or two? The light in the hallway is turned on the entire time, there is no rhythm. Every once in a while I take off the bandage, wash the wound and the fabric and reattach it. We didn't get food, but Liv needs it. She has feverish dreams and the slash doesn't look good at all. I know her name from tiny pieces of conversations when she was half awake. Sentences that seem to be forcefully teared out of context, parts of stories that might tell the story of a life – one that even I cannot imagine in its brutality and unfairness, its hopelessness. I ask myself what her whole story is, but I can only wonder, she is not really conscious. And I thought my life sucks. Being kept a secret for so long. Being kicked out when too old, which was at the age of 9. Surviving on the streets of San Fran, but of course not in the fancy areas. All the violence and hunger.
YOU ARE READING
Outsiders
Short StoryI have always been good at melting into the shadows and not being seen - mostly because people don't want to see the homeless. But being invisible also comes in handy when trying to survive on the streets as a girl. So I sense danger and I stay out...
