I ramble around my bleak and repugnant cave hand in hand with Lucy. Above, the sky is the colour of
slate, pollution clinging to it creating a film of dreariness. The council estate is a sacr to an otherwise beautiful, stunning face causing everyone to wince and cringe away just at the thought of
its sheer ugliness and like scars, everyone here prays that one day they’ll wake up to find that everything bad disappeared and life gets miraculously gets better.
“Hannah, please can we go home now?” I look down at Lucy with her thin blonde hair swaying effortlessly in the wind, tugging at my sleeve. I forgot how her petite frame meant that she suffered twice as much as I did when the weather was cold, even worse than this, the sleeves of her coat didn’t quite reach the full length of her arms since we had not been able to buy her a new one since last year, exposing her pale and delicate skin against the worn out and battered fabric. It seems to me that Lucy’s whole being encompasses the definition of fragility itself. Prematurely born at 4lbs on the midnight of March 06 2002, she was a frail yet graceful baby girl which made my life a little less lonely, less unbearable than it used to be. I still have to thank her for that.
“Sure baby.” was my reply and at that we headed through the wall of frosted surrounding us for Flat #22 which we called home,together, like how it has always been.
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