The Street

Those shoes were as black as the street which is to say that they weren't very black at all, but rather rugged and stale. The pavement can be heard beneath her feet. The floor gives way as she begins to hallucinate. 

Dying.

Dying. 

Dying.

But still running!

Must keep running for if she doesn't the end will come and that will be the final straw for the landlord. The landlord is through with these crazy antics and will not stand another late knock at four in the morning. What is it with four in the morning she always says. The landlord can't stand it, he wakes up at six and can never fall back asleep. But, the crazy girl as she is known comes at four in the morning and she is scared and trembling and sweating and hiding from something. 

It is the drugs.

It is not the drugs she says.

It is the past. 

The past won't leave me alone she says. She sits in the corner holding her head and biting her nails and stares at the door. Nothing will budge her. There was pity in the beginning. Maybe she has an abusive husband they said. Maybe she is addicted to illegal substances others say. Nothing works out in the end. She is single. She is twenty-three and looks much older. Her skin is dry and white. Her teeth are crooked and her eyes are sad and aged. She has dark circles. Hasn't slept in days poor girl. She wears the same thing nearly every day. Can hear her doing laundry though recalls the landlady, though she never comes out with anything else but that paint specked dress and those hideous, rugged black shoes. Not black anymore, but a dried out charcoal which matches the street.