Prologue

The sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone street was enough to make her miss home even more dearly than before. Gloved hands fidgeting in her lap, she stared out the grey window which was spotted with raindrops, as she pondered whether coming to West End was insensitive or simply foolish.

As the carriage came to a sudden stop, her troubled heart jolted as if a thin cold dagger had pierced her chest. She ignored the nausea that followed as she shoved open the carriage door, her bright auburn hair flying about as she stepped clumsily off the black cab. She surveyed the daunting apartment before her, the moist air tasting impure and thick in her mouth despite the heavy rain.

She knew in her heart that this visit was going to be complex. But she did not trust her heart – it always assumed the worst of people.

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Germs

The peculiar sensation of being sick.

Now, I realize that the topic of malady has been suggested and turned and simmered and digested enough by everyone, especially for anyone currently in the northern hemisphere. But I do believe that if I don’t effectively purge my system of the somber and miscellaneous reaction to feeling ill, I’m pretty sure I just might explode into a horrible, comical, quite heated rant that will never end.

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Why

I keep my head down when I walk.
I don’t know if it’s to avoid people’s eyes, fearing confrontation.
I don’t know if it’s because I want to watch where I place my booted feet in case I step on something unpleasant.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m in a sombre mood and I comically want to act like it.
I don’t know if it’s because there is something I look for in the ground instead of gazing whimsically at the sky.
I keep my head down when I walk.
One thing’s for sure- my steps are numbered.

I don’t think babies realize how damn fortunate they are. All they gotta do is sleep and eat, and they get to be in a carriage all day and be carried around. It’s a shame I can’t remember being a baby. It’s all I’d ever think about.