A corpse was found as the sun rose, in a corner between houses, lying against the wall. The little girl had been frozen to death, holding a bundle of matches in her hand.
“Poor child … she tried to warm herself,” some passersby said.
Villagers had seen her the night before, shivering and roving. She emulated the picture of misery – skinny, filthy, with wide misty eyes. No one stopped, looked, or cared, as she crept. No one minded how she longed for warmth – the warmth of a room with a fireplace, the warmth of a dining table with fine china and hot supper, and the warmth of companionship and love. They rather focused on their affairs and averted their eyes. Not even her closest took particular notice of her.
Hence, no one imagined that, just as the flame went out and her last breath seeped through her feeble body, how euphoric she was, knowing that she neither existed nor felt anymore. Not a single one.
For Sunday Photo Fiction – December 4th 2016