dont even stare
Positioned on the cold lonely, harsh plateform of Kings Cross station, sharing a fag woefulth her friend. This Sunday early morning is a commune for the drunken rejects of the world, and for once, we are not quite the worst off; nor do we smell the worse. Nervous, distrubed foreigns don't even stare —a few want to know where to find the night bus. I am spreading our tired ,wore down bodies all over the cold floor, passing the times watching stumbling people battel with the train doors.
I scanned down at my watch over we had nearly two hours left. My hands start to freeze. I can't remeber a time when I had felt old and woeful.
Their she was! She dragged herself over to us with the last of her willpower. Her blue sweatpants are patch ups , and her feet are ratteling around in nike trainers. One of her eyes seemed to have leak and it was clear that she was nearly blind.. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. Her large coat seemed to be full of all of her worldly possions.. I'm looking at her withered form and imagine all the thinking she must have been through ; that if I could not deal with 2 hours then I woudl never last as long as her , and all I have to worry about is waiting for the next train.
She slowely brought out her decrept, weak palm.
I looked in my purse but their is nothing but reciepts.
The darkeness of the city engulfed her ragged, sorry shape.
I roll up another cigerette. I make a silent scream, no one can hear but these two hours seem unbearable.. I feel myself trying to slip into a slumber, but the stone cold floor drags me back.
Then I she the old lady again.. Her weak wrinkled hand hand, tired of beseeching, had tracked us down.
She dropped a pund fifty into my palm and said, " buy yourself a cuppa. Merry Christmas."
The darkness gulps her up once again without a word I quitely thnaked her .