The young girl wanders through the cold streets, her blonde hair is dirty and hangs over her pale, grubby face in stringy strands. Her dress is soft cotton, white, or off-white, with tiny red flowers. Her fingers trace slowly along the woven fibres of one sleeve, the material whispering as her dirt-covered fingers caress it. Her breath is a whisper too. Her knees, just visible below the hem of the dress, are red and tough-skinned, like those of one forced to kneel down for too long without getting up. There is a pattern in the skin of her shins, skin just beginning to bear the softest golden down; there are criss-cross lines imprinted in her flesh, a nearly symmetrical pattern. The more deeply embedded pattern of lines circling her wrists are not the same.

   She walks very slowly, one foot after the other, her face tilted down but her eyes roving from left to right. Her footfalls do not echo. There is a man in a doorway, slumped on the ground, reeking of whisky and failure. His clothes are more filthy than the girl's; he has stubble on his face, short, black and wiry. His toes with blackened nails poke out from his boots, a man with nowhere to go. He grins at her with yellow, decaying teeth, the smell of his breath potent enough to make her eyes water from two feet away. She stands directly in front of him, her eyes fixed on his and holds out one small hand. She speaks in a timid voice. "Place it here."
He coughs, a rasping, painful sound and slowly shakes his head, looking straight through her with bloodshot eyes; bleary white, a roadmap of fine red veins. He grumbles. "It does not exist."
One fat, translucent tear rolls down her left cheek, leaving a wet trail in the grime. She raises her empty hand to her chest, lays it across her heart, lowers her gaze to the ground. She walks away, clasping and unclasping her fist, digging her short but sharp nails into her skin. The pain is slight and she does not notice it.

   Turning the corner, she happens upon another man, another drunk, though not homeless; he wears a business suit, carries a satchel. His breath reeks of alcohol, just like the previous man; this man does not grin, instead turning his head away to face the wall. She walks up to him, looking closely, craning her neck, trying to see his eyes; he turns to face her. One eye is blue, the other green. He frowns at her and looks down at the ground, staring at his shoes, expensive black leather which have vomit on them. The slimy residue coats the leather thickly, matching the crusted globs at the corners of his twisted mouth.  She holds out her hand to him, her voice so soft. "Place it here."
He scowls, rubbing his feet together, smearing the vomit from one to the other in a vain attempt to wipe them clean. He grunts at her. "It does not exist."
A tear wells up in her right eye, tumbling down her cheek and meeting the existing droplet of water at the bottom of her delicately pointed chin. She touches her empty hand to her breast once more, a faint throbbing in her head. She leaves this man to his futile and disgusting task.

   Continuing down the street, she sees a man standing in front of the wall, facing it; a tall, slender man. He has short, spiked hair, thickly gelled and unmoving in the slight breeze that has picked up; the very tip of each spike is tinted red, almost as if he has run at something living and impaled it on his hair, the tiny traces of blood all that is left. He turns around, flaccid in his hand and zips up his fly, stepping away from the wall but not in time to save the soles of his worn shoes from the steaming stream he left there. He curses and steps closer to the girl; the grating sound of her teeth grinding together hurt her ears but only hers, he cannot hear the sound. He smiles at her and his teeth are grey. She feels one of her socks wrinkle and fall down to nestle fearfully against her ankle. He pulls a bent cigarette from his pocket and lights it with nicotine-stained fingers, the match hissing angrily as he strikes it against the rough side of the box. He takes a deep draw from the white stick and makes a rude gesture with two fingers at her and he pockets the matches. She shudders slightly and holds out her hand again, a broken nail on her index finger jutting out slightly. Her voice is frightened. "Place it here."
The man laughs and leans down to her, towering over her, trying to catch a glance down her near-threadbare dress as he brings his face closer to hers. He licks his bottom lip and blows smoke in her face, a cancerous cloud that makes her cough. "It does not exist."
Her lip trembles as she once again sets her empty hand over her heart and she hurries away, the cool breeze blowing stronger, chilling her battered knees and the wet trails on her face.

   She is shaking violently by the time she reaches what appears to be the last building on the winding street; for everything beyond it is black, dark night, dark something. Her eyes are shining, her dirty goosefleshed skin is icy under her hands and her hair becomes even more knotted as the wind blows it around her small face. She sees someone at the far side of the last building's doorway and makes her way over there; a man in a red jogging suit, so much shorter than the last, stands perfectly still against the brick wall, as if trying to blend in, or to meld with it. His eyes are closed. Still, she holds out her little hand which trembles, steps forward, near to desperation and the strain showing in her frail voice. "Place it here."
The man's eyelids open and she sees no eyes; they are black voids, empty places, unlit sockets. The darkness is kind. He reaches forward with one hand and touches her with one finger, not on her palm but on her wrist, where her blue veins crisscross just underneath the skin. He speaks and his voice is her own. "It will exist."
The man closes his non-eyes and rests back against the wall, perfectly still once more.

   The little girl steps back and turns to face the darkness, lifting her hand to gaze at the spot where his warm fingertip touched her; the spot tingles. She kisses it, feeling her rough lips against the place on her wrist where the man made contact; she holds it against her heart for only a moment, then sets both her hands by her sides, takes a step forwards, her eyes now avoiding the man against the wall. She steps forward into the darkness and instantly, the world behind her is coated with it; all except the man in red.

   He remains.