Babushka

And so I wait. Snow is falling, a bitter wind swirls the flakes around my
head. Everything is white, a blanket of purity covering up the crimes and
sins of this city and its people. For one short moment I too am covered, I
am pure, until the meagre heat of my body melts away the snow and I am left
tainted again.
All around me people pass, rushing by without a second glance at my huddled
form sheltering against the wall. To them, I am invisible. I prefer it like
this. I no longer exist because I remain here, silent and motionless whilst
they are still trying to beat the passage of time. I found out long ago that
time would pass me by whether I wanted it to or not, and I stopped trying to
fight it. In my eyes I live in a more realistic world; to the rest of the
people in this world, I am a failure. This I can use to my advantage: I know
how people around me think; therefore I can predict how they will move. It's
an extraordinary gift, to be able to foresee how a person will react. It is
a gift I wish I had had many years ago.
This is the time of day I like best. Dusk is falling, the sun cannot break
through the thick layers of cloud and snow, and it turns from light to dark
in no more than one hour. It is now that people are at their most
susceptible; they are busy trying to get to their destination before darkness
envelops the city and the creatures of the night come out. Some might say I
am one such creature; it is what they call the ones who are not afraid to
walk the streets without a protective light around them like a halo, but the
real difference is that I am not afraid any more. Fear is a luxury I have
learned to live without.
And back to the people hurrying past. They always appear to me like rats: the
infestation of the city, scurrying over one another, fighting to reach the
interesting parts of life before their contemporaries do. Ever searching for
something better to dig their teeth into, then growing despondent when they
realize life has nothing better to offer for them. When I came to this
realization some time ago, I was considered abnormal. A freak of society.
Someone who was to be avoided at all costs, lest they themselves were
affected by my revelatory thoughts. It is they who have driven me to the
place where I am now: sheltering from the cold against an even colder wall,
the stone chilling me to the bone as it seeps through my body. Soon, I know,
complete darkness will fall, the temperature will drop below freezing and my
fragile body will grow ever colder.
Around me, the sombre melody of Silent Night carries through the air,
reminding us all that Christmas is only two days away. Alone in my world, I
yearn for just one person to hold me. This is the worst time of year to be
alone; I remember people telling me that. I never really believed in it until
now. The only thing that has kept me in this world for so long, is that I
know there are those who are much more worse off than I am. Those in my
position who seek the comfort of another in order to buy more drugs; those
who have no choice in what their future holds. I may not have a place to
live, but that was a choice I made and I now have to live with, a way to
execute my own free will. There are those who say free will doesn't exist;
that God is responsible for all our choices. I, however, hold the view that
God wasn't there when I needed him most; therefore he can have no further
say in the decisions I make. If he doesn't like it, I'm sure he will have the
opportunity to argue with me about it soon enough.
Most people would consider my life privileged when they look in on it. It
isn't the typical start you would expect from a girl now sleeping rough. It
just goes to prove that it can happen to anyone, whatever the background. My
mother was some sort of inspector for an education board; I don't know
exactly what she did, I never cared enough to ask. The only thing I knew was
that it was a job that took her away from my brother and I. My father was
employed in a much lowlier position of a nurse. He spent long hours caring
for the sick and needy, yet couldn't tend to us. The irony comes when they
both were at home: to them, we were still invisible; all they could do was
argue with each other over petty little things. Things that seemed unimportant
to us. In typical teenage fashion, I believed I should be the centre of my
parent's universe. In reality, I merely revolved around the outside, like a
wandering star. At least, I'd like to think of myself like that. It adds a
sort of mystique to me if I call myself a wandering star, always traveling,
never in the same place. Always on my own within a group of millions. Imagery
was always something I liked. English was my favourite subject at school; I
had visions of being a writer and earning lots of money, then moving away to
a big house in the wilderness somewhere with only a modem to connect me to
the outside world. I got over those dreams by the time I was 15, resigned to
the fact that dreams could never come true. It's hard to pinpoint when a
dream dies. With me, it was like a part of me had died alongside it; this
hope I had nurtured for years suddenly disappeared and the light went out. I
had no other ambitions. I just wanted to write, then that was taken away by
those who ridiculed me. Around that time, I think I became what my parents
termed 'difficult' - the cliché of falling in with the wrong crowd suddenly
became an apt description. Ironic that I received much more attention from
my parents doing the 'bad girl' routine than I ever did when I was the model
daughter. I think I'm technically what is known as a dropout. I gave up on
school just after they gave up on me - I really didn't see much point in it
any more. I think my parents gave up on me then too. That was the worst
thing, really, the fact that they didn't seem to want to bother with me.
Maybe I was bad for my mother's social status, I don't know.
I first ran away in November 1998. It was the big run up to Christmas, when
everyone was frantic and worrying about what to buy, what to wear, what to
do with the turkey. They tended to ignore my bah humbug impressions and
pretend that I was normal. The attempt only lasted about two weeks, as it
was a fairly cold time of year and I couldn't really resist lure of family
togetherness, even if it was merely an illusion. That only lasted as long as
the resolutions, though, before I was once again the devil in disguise. My
second attempt was in the summer of 1999, which lasted longer because the
weather was warmer. This time, they actually came looking and found me,
something they had left up to the police before.
This time, I left it until I could get a head start. Leaving in the early
hours of a March morning, I had a good five hours to make my escape, plus a
chance at the cash machine where my Christmas money still remained. I had
also thought to think ahead and take my passport just in case. Looking back,
I planned it so meticulously, I am almost ashamed. I actually planned to
leave my family behind - at the time, I thought, forever. When I think of
how naïve I was, only 9 months ago, it shocks me. I believed I had everything
I needed to survive. Now I know the vital thing I lacked was the support of
people who loved me, as I know they did in their own way. Having survived
the summer relatively unscathed, albeit a little slimmer, I thought I was all
right. It only hits me now that I was falling apart even then.
I phoned my house yesterday, to wish them all a happy Christmas. I wanted to
apologize for all I had put them through. I suppose I wanted them to invite
me back. I didn't want to have to beg, but I know I would have done if they
wanted me to. It wasn't that I wanted a place to go for Christmas; it's just
that I see people sleeping in doorways around me who have been here for five
or six years. Sometimes more. There are people who would seem more at home
in an old people's home, but they're sleeping in Manchester city centre by
night, retreating to the shadows in the daytime so that the shoppers don't
get offended. And then there's me, a 17-year-old girl, who left home to rebel
against her parents, searching for the gold that lined the pavements. I don't
want to be here in five years time. I don't think I ever wanted to be here in
the first place, I think I just wanted them to come and look for me again, to
tell me that I was wanted. But when I phoned, my mum answered, and she cried.
Right after she cried, she wished me a happy Christmas and told me they
didn't want me to come home because they couldn't cope with not knowing if
they were going to wake up one morning with me not there again.
It's dark now. People flock to the centre at nighttime, especially around
Christmas. Late night shopping combined with us, the scourge of the city.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we're the vermin, searching in the dark corners for
some semblance of salvation. In any case, it's still snowing. The cold
doesn't affect me anymore. I go numb - perhaps it's the effect of the cold,
I don't know. I welcome it because it keeps me from thinking about my life.
Come cold; take me as your companion. I have nothing left to live for.



Newspaper article.

The body of 17-year-old runaway Jennifer Mackenzie was found in Manchester's
Deansgate early yesterday morning. A source close to her family described
them as 'distraught', whilst the family made no comment. Early indications
show that Jennifer, who has been homeless for almost nine months, died
during the night of hypothermia.