Thoughts of a Passerby

Writing Experiment (Quick Write)

By Saxifrage

Summery: Experimental Quick Write. Have you ever wondered if you were alone in the universe? That no one cared? Well, this story proves that though it isn’t known, you make an impression on even the smallest person in the distance… And even the oddest stranger can muddle their thoughts over the sight of you.

Sometimes I see a girl sitting on the edge of a road… just sitting there, staring off into space. It amazes me how she can concentrate completely and solely on the concrete in front of her. It has always bothered me… Why is she there? What does she want? Who is she?

Well, she has dark brown curls that flow silkily down her back to her waist… and she lets it linger on the dirt. Soft, clean clothing cover her body and protect her figure from the cold. Her bright, honey-colored eyes seem hollow somehow—and mournful. Pale cheeks lightly flecked with small, brown freckles are often covered in tears.

And yet, over the past year, I have seen her walk to that same spot on an empty street; look around once before sitting alone on the corner sidewalk, and retracting into herself. It almost seems to me as if something draws her there. I yearn to ask her, and still I stay rooted to the spot on my distant balcony.

What is traveling through her mind as I watch her tears fall to mingle with dirt? I can imagine an angry father at home, stale beer on his lips and anger in his stance. She, perhaps, comes to the corner everyday at the same time to wait her father’s anger out. The mother would be baking at home, fearing for her child and husband’s safety—and sanity. She knows that they cannot live like this, and still does nothing to help her husband, or protect her child. The shame is just too great for the young woman…

But that twitch in the young girl’s hand—is she rubbing a mark on arm? Ah, I can see it now… Puncture marks. But what could that mean, if my eyes do not deceive me? Perhaps she was once a drug addict and struggles against her own past. The horrible emotional pain she must have gone through—! What troubles she could have gotten herself into… Maybe stealing from her little brother at home… School work failing or maybe even the loss of one of her friends? What could have brought herself to redemption? One so young should not go through so much pain…

And here, now, she caresses a small trinket around her neck—perhaps not a hellish mistake made at all! Granny must have died of heart attack, or stroke, at that corner. And Granny was the only family the poor girl had! Now she is alone to fend for herself, hungry on the streets, perhaps baby-sitting for neighbors, or performing hard labor to keep herself well kept. The horror in her eyes suggests that she might have been little Granny’s escort when her time had come! Oh, the poor girl! I remember, now, when the child first came, she had a flower in her hand! A sweet gift, for a sweet blessing now gone! Her poor little heart must be broken—

But what if it wasn’t a death at all on her conscious? A flower—! Yes, a lost lover maybe. Love can seem so tragic at that age; I’ve seen it tear people’s souls apart! Perhaps a charming boy had once swept her off her feet and now has another’s heart to care for! The mangy devil! And most likely leaving this sweet, pretty girl to care for a child! At such a young age! Oh, how I’d wring his neck… And her heart is broken for her lost love—the father her little girl will never have! Twenty years from now, at her sweet babe’s wedding, a friend will substitute for the Father-Bride dance. If she even gets that far! The young girl dreads, I see, that her child will grow fearful of men and the pain they can deal. Any mother would worry and cry over the matter of their child’s happiness.

Oh—sweet child? Please do not fret! Now she is retching over in sobs as she never has before! As if she could sense my thoughts… I mustn’t distress her with my staring for she might think it queer. But if I had the nerve to go to that sweet girl… and comfort her! Oh, I’m such a coward! Thinking only of myself…

Please, young child, whatever your situation be—know that someone cares! Yes—I, a mere stranger and passerby, wonder your feelings at night, and cry to unconsciousness at what you may have gone through. It has somehow effected how I live my life… And though I may not be brave enough for confrontation, I am still here.

I just only wish I knew her name.

The End