Short Story.

She wanders the streets, desolate, still wet from the rain earlier in the day. There is the distant sounds of people laughing, spilling out of bars in a drunken stupor heading to spend the night in a dreamless sleep. There is the distant sound of people fighting, every frustration mounting and straining their vocal chords until they cry out in anguish. She walks on the brittle, cold sidewalk, littered with trash, with the remains of human life that happened during the daylight. Wrappers, cigarettes, newspapers. The light swings in the light wind, screeching and straining at its post, anxious to escape the night. She walks until she can no longer feel, until she can no longer think other than to put one foot in front of the other, and carry on into the foggy London night. How did she get here? How did she end up in a tattered trench coat, years old boots, hair done in a loose bun, slowly unraveling, slowly slipping away. Her life- coming to pieces, coming together in brief moments of sunlight, before shrinking back into the darkness.