• Darkness. Utter darkness. Children hold on to the things they own, for there is not much that is truly theirs. As is my case.
    I gaze into the fragment of mirror I had filched from the trash bins that I so often steal from. “Seven years of bad luck…,” I whisper, and then the laughter starts. Out of nowhere I am laughing, giggling uncontrollably.
    As if it is contagious, a crow perched on a pole next to me starts laughing too. Cackling and shrieking in some perverse imitation of human laughter.
    At that point I stop laughing and throw a loose stone from the cobbles at it, and it takes flight, still screeching. I watch as its black form slowly melts away in the distance, yet I can still hear its laughter, can still see the black feathers on its back.
    I shudder, almost scared by the bird if I had not been so accustomed to them, to the jet black feathers, and the mocking laughter that I despised so much.
    I feel my arms. They have goose bumps on them. Still shivering, I huddle in the dark corner I call home and bring out the pitiful rags that will serve as my blanket in the cold, relentless night.
    Looking up, I see dark clouds lining the sky ominously. As if the sky knows I’m looking, lightning crackled and thunder roared. Rain poured down like tears from the heavens above, and I curl up even tighter to avoid the oncoming deluge.
    It happens every night, every day. I get older, and still the same things. Nothing is getting better. I am still miserable. I am still living in that filthy little corner that I worked so hard to get.
    And the crows are still watching me.