Siren [On the Record]

She sat, her back to a streetlight, and hummed. 

The tune traversed across the browned snow, which was up to her ankle. Those who frequented this rotting block of town whispered of the strange rhythm, the seemingly non-existent yet beauteous melody, and her inability to produce any other noise.

She wore blue jeans ripped at the knees, exposing bare, bruised skin. Her hands stayed inside her pocket, visibly shaking at every gush of wind. Her head hid beneath the collar of the red coat with the rest of her frail, slender torso. The pouring snow built a wall around her as the day passed. Occasional onlookers spared a leer, before swiftly carrying on. The neighbourhood, devoid of any business or interests, only became drearier with the silhouette of the girl but twenty years of age.

Night fell. Streetlights flickered.

A black sedan with no license plate emerged out of the darkness. It flailed about the road, before stopping in front of her, one wheel on the sidewalk. The passenger door opened, revealing a balding, middle-aged man in the driver seat. He clumsily tucked his exorbitant stomach, before turning to her with an awkward smile. She lifted her head, causing golden locks to spill out. Her emerald eyes peered at the man, while he hastily motioned her to get in. She obliged. The car disappeared into the night.

Morning dawned. The streets remained silent.

She walked down the familiar lane. The fresh bruises on her leg stung in the cold. She wiped the crimson stains in her hand onto the inside of her coat, which was becoming as red as the outside day by day. A beanie tucked around her head, two sizes too big. Her right hand rummaged through her pockets for cash. She stepped into the convenient store, only to emerge moments later with an opened bottle of hard liqueur.  She took to her corner, and drank.

She sat, back to the streetlight, and rolled the empty bottle across the road.

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