Amara Nwachuku (Y8)
Sometimes I wonder if she chose to move here, twenty feet above the bustling slums of Skid Row, Los Angeles, miles from any touch of greenery she treasures and safeguards so strictly. I wonder if she co-lives with strangers so easily or if she abandons her privacy so willingly. 5 mm walls are all that separate her from criminals flanking her left and right, providing no sound shield.
Everyone watched as she tended to her flowers at around midday when the sun was at its zenith with thin and gangly hands filled with such a fleeting touch, despite the sharp, prominent bones; even I could perceive it from the apartment across the street. She had high, protruding cheekbones and sharp, razor-blade features that stole your breath away, but dark half-circles taunted her eyes, gnawing at her rare beauty.
Her hair—most of all—was her one feature that stood out like black against white. Golden-brown hair reflecting off the sun. A beacon to all wandering the polluted streets. She wore it in a messy bun most days; we were lucky if we saw the full length of it. But despite her beauty, she kept to herself, leaving her apartment only if necessary and getting her neighbours to do the shopping. Her light was always on, even when the neighbourhood was finally resting in the moon’s wake.
And she always had to endure loud music blasting out of the soot-covered rooms surrounding her, pigeons looking for scraps, and harsh weather for her fragile plants. We all did. And so I wonder where she is now: six feet under or meandering about in green gardens, watering those pretty forget-me-nots she cared so much for; roaming about a big house, pondering freely with dirt-stained fingers.