"Will you be coming tomorrow?"
Now how am I supposed to refuse, a plea from a little girl with such a sweet voice yet augmented by unconscious depression and sufferings? I bent down and kissed her forehead, she who had all her seven years of happy life taken away, leaving her in the cold, hard wasteland I was supposed to live in by myself. Well, not that I didn't enjoy her company.
Whenever anyone said that it was cold, I would almost always burst into laughter; the fact that they were bothered by it didn't matter. Well, it was obvious that the petite white touches would send chill down your spine, and it was, to most, exciting to see such little dots fall slowly to the already white Earth - but to us, no thank you. I couldn't hold the urge to laugh at them, they who would never comprehend the meaning of terrorizing chill, and dare to say such word ignorantly. Not that I wished everyone could understand it the same way as I did; it's just funny. I don't know.
And when the sun rises, I would cover that little girl with our blanket, torn and burnt, for it was time for her to sleep and time for me to go out hunting. People like me wasn't that rare in this city, so I would be walking around looking for prey without anyone actually suspecting me. When fortune wasn't by my side (which is almost everyday) I would just wonder around digging whatever residue were left from modern society's way of living, of treating things they usually take for granted, of unconsciously donating to poor souls such as mine. Cans, plastic bag, wires; you name it. Not much worth, I must say, should she not be waiting there for what I called simple yet she called magic.
"Cool!" she exclaimed as the lump of trash under the faint moonlight was finally illuminated by the newborn fire, although only slightly, as if the flame itself wasn't fine with the thought of being born but was here nevertheless. It was but an old hobby, the useless passion of putting remnants into one, mostly senseless, creation that serves as proof of reusage. It was, to me, mostly shapeless creatures, but she always thought of it as wonderful robots or animals. Really, she just had a wide, vivid imagination. She even thought of the snow as sugar being added to our world, and for beings such as us sugar was always good.
Yet she always thank me for however small or worthless gift I gave her, and that's the only thing that kept me going thus far: else I'll be living my life hating people and hunting for goods from lack of awareness. She was my little miracle, my little angel, and I'll do everything for her.
Thing is, I'm too soft to get the job done. I would began my mission when I saw an old lady waiting under the clear yet chilling sky, holding her purse for dear life. However, I would back down when her grandson, apparently unable to see, showed up and asked the old lady to be his eyes, thus should that be my only chance of acquiring money, I would be left starving. And so would she. That hurts more when she smiled instead of crying.
"I'm not hungry, Papa," would be her claim when such thing happens, with her everlasting innocent smile; it's amazing how she learnt to lie for the sake of others at such a young age. Maybe she thought of it as a good deed, but for me who loved her more than anything, it only deepens my wound inside.
"It's okay, Papa. You're still great. You can do magic!"
Apparently the disappointment and pain that I've been experiencing began to show - or is it just her being too sensitive for her age? It was as if she knew full well that her thanking me for my creation was the thing that could set my mind off my self-judgement. And it was always true. I wonder how long we could live such life..
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