Her Backpack Is All That She Knows

She slid down the wall, back straight and eyes hooded. She shivered, pulling her loose polo shirt closer to her thin, emaciated body. She was home. Or what she called home at least.

The alleyway was dark, quiet, and filled with people's old belongings. It reminded her of an urban desert, desolate and deserted. It smelled of sweat and survival

But, it was the place she lived in. Not a lot of people came into this part, knowing it was the "ghetto" side of town. The girl was not in a gang. She was not a prostitute. She was homeless. Simple as that.

She'd been homeless all her life. Her first clear memory is digging for food out of a metal trash can. The food was rotten and smelled horrible. It was probably a few days old and not even the rats would pick out that food. But when you're hungry, you eat anything.

She dug into her shirt's pocket, looking for that small piece of fabric. Her small fingers grasped what she was looking for and she sighed in relief.

It was an old, felt heart. And to the girl, it was just like her.
Both were abandoned.
Both were dirty as fuck.
Both were ugly on the outside but beautiful within.

Fingers shaking, the girl used the safety pin holding her hair up to pin the heart onto her worn-out, dirty backpack. Her only goal in life was to keep this backpack, her only possession, safe.

Why did she have to keep this backpack safe? It held her heart. Literally. She was younger and some sweet, young couple took her to a hospital because she looked horrible. She'd needed a heart transplant and the hospital let her keep the old heart. As sick as that sounds. The hospital was going to throw it out anyways.

She pushed back her oily hair and sighed. She would do anything to see herself in a mirror. She saw glimpses of herself in dirty store windows, but that wouldn't compare to a clear, shiny mirror. She wanted to find out what her eyes looked like, how tall she actually was, what her face shape looked like. She knew she had black hair and eyes almost the color of the celery she saw at the market. She just wanted to know more.

She pulled her backpack close to her and suddenly, she heard footsteps come into her alley. Her eyes closed and she pushed herself back further into the shadows. She hoped that the night and the combination of the dark wall would protect her.

The footsteps were heavy, like a drunkard's, and the voices were slurred and deep and much too loud. She could hear beer sloshing around in their glass bottles. Stupid drunks, she thought and resisted the urge to fight them. There were too many in this area. Much too many.

They got closer and closer. She could smell the alcohol on their breath. The smell made her want to gag. Involuntarily, she shivered. They were too drunk to notice. The shadows and footsteps and alcohol-soaked breath started to turn around and walk back towards the streetlights. Finally, she could breathe again.

She let out a shaky sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. Her fingers were shaking even more so as she grabbed her backpack, thankful that the men hadn't taken a couple more steps.

Slowly, she opened the zipper and took out the dirty jar filled with a dark water. She shook the jar a bit and stared into its murky waters.

There was a dark, giant mass in there. She had to keep that safe.

She had to keep safe.