This was written near the end of my freshman year and I think it was supposed to be longer but I can’t remember where I was going with it now so instead it is just a short piece.

He was huddled in four layers of knits and thermals but the cold dampness of a lonely February still clung to his covered skin. His jacket was torn on the inside and out, fluff showing from holes torn by knives and falls and time. His fingers were shriveled inside his mittens covered by waterproof gloves that had lost their magical ability to keep the water out some years ago. The hidden skin was cracked and dried blood made his knuckles red, but this was unseen by the passerbys who saw a huddled form on the cold February pavement. Poverty, homeless, hopeless, these minds thought fleetingly as their feet passed and then went back to errands, taxes, children. The cuts, the human skin that huddled in its layers of filth and thrown out capitalism, were unseen. Even if the passerbys had seen the skin, the redness, the wounds, they would still be invisible to their perfect vision. He rubbed his knee, bent up touching his chin, his chin being the only fully exposed part of his body. He fixed his large hat so the furry flaps were snug against his lonely ears. They heard subways and street cars, murmurs and murders, yelled out instructions and whispered secrets, but no conversation. No single melody, only a mix of fleeting radio waves and clubs and restaurant chatter.

Creative Commons License
This work by Sarah Holmes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.


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