Печа́ль

The mouth widens, teeth all displayed, all crooked and rocked by decay and foul ice. This woman had a face that had been lost way ahead of her years. Yet she displayed such a ferocious countenance that by standing still in that particular place in time, it seemed as though she grappled all those years she had by the claw and melted it down into fine dust to swallow. It nourished her the same way the human body does when it stores deposits in the event of hunger, and hunger embodies every protruding bone in that skinny frame. All those lickspittles at the Löwenthal owe that woman a long overdue apology. An apology that includes an overaching compensation, because the truth of the matter is, the world owes that woman a wide-ranging debt of gratitude. She gave all that she could and took nothing back in return. She sat on the corner bench at this forlorn evening summer barely filling a single puff leftover of rizla. Grunge, I thought. This woman. It could have been me.

She fell asleep. She woke up. Spasmodic. She fell asleep again. 

And when she last woke up, the bright lights were quick to lit up. Summer had a way of it. Tears fell down her eyes, and she looked up asking "Why?" She laid back on the bench, her face all up in a drench. "Why can't my life be beautiful?" she said. She closed her eyes again, just praying he would return.

But only darkness fell upon her.