Shoulders slung
low. Head downcast, downtrodden. Eyes dazzling, reflective sparks
caught in the moonlight. Cat's eyes. Padding forward, alert.
Instinctively inhaling her surroundings with an all-consuming arc of
the head. Danger is never far from Trouble. But for now, nothing
stirs.
A treasure trove offers itself up for scavenging; a bin spews forth its contents, bulging at the seams it seems from the gluttony of Christmas. Peering at the contents, gingerly, reluctantly at first before hunger takes a hold and suspicion and self-deprivation is cast aside. Ravenous.
Discarded waste makes for tantalising treats dressed up in tinfoil, wrapping and egg-shells. Carefully she tip-toes around these and wolfs down what's inside. Been a few days, but that's about normal around these parts. She sticks out like a wild animal here in leafy suburbia. Not that the others are coming here any less mind.
Used to be, you could make a decent living central, feeding off society, scrounging. But now, night isn't so safe in the parks, on the streets. They treat you like vermin, chasing you off, never a moment's peace. And the ones like her are just as bad. Sooner steal your last scrap than look out for you.
Even if they do there's always something in exchange, some unspoken gain that later rears its head in a fit of anger and rage. And so you gravitate to the very edges of this fabric. Less rigid. Frayed feel to it. Comforting, in a way. More opportunity, especially tonight, when it's safe...but wait, listen!
What was that?
A treasure trove offers itself up for scavenging; a bin spews forth its contents, bulging at the seams it seems from the gluttony of Christmas. Peering at the contents, gingerly, reluctantly at first before hunger takes a hold and suspicion and self-deprivation is cast aside. Ravenous.
Discarded waste makes for tantalising treats dressed up in tinfoil, wrapping and egg-shells. Carefully she tip-toes around these and wolfs down what's inside. Been a few days, but that's about normal around these parts. She sticks out like a wild animal here in leafy suburbia. Not that the others are coming here any less mind.
Used to be, you could make a decent living central, feeding off society, scrounging. But now, night isn't so safe in the parks, on the streets. They treat you like vermin, chasing you off, never a moment's peace. And the ones like her are just as bad. Sooner steal your last scrap than look out for you.
Even if they do there's always something in exchange, some unspoken gain that later rears its head in a fit of anger and rage. And so you gravitate to the very edges of this fabric. Less rigid. Frayed feel to it. Comforting, in a way. More opportunity, especially tonight, when it's safe...but wait, listen!
What was that?
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