In the house next door lived an old woman. Despite living in a ground-floor apartment, she kept a chicken coop. On the side with the window facing the street, there was a small ladder and a fenced area where the chickens lived. Neighbors tried to complain about her, but since the woman was a veteran and a pensioner, the authorities left her alone.
Every day, neighbors could see the old woman walking to the dumpster, carrying back stale bread and vegetable peels to her home. Soon, she stopped going alone and was accompanied by a little girl. The girl was small, thin, with short white hair.
I was very curious about who this girl was and how she ended up in that dreadful house with the chicken coop.
Summer passed, and in September, I started third grade. We all took our seats, and to my surprise, I saw that same neighbor. It turned out she was my new classmate.
After school, we walked home together, and within a few days, we became close friends.
I learned she had two older sisters. Their mother had died, and the girls were sent to an orphanage. The middle sister was lucky—she was taken in by a foster family. Recently, the grandmother had brought the eldest and youngest sisters to live with her. She couldn’t do so earlier because their father, who was still alive at the time, wouldn’t consent to guardianship.
The biggest shock for me was that she was already fourteen years old. The lack of proper education in the orphanage had prevented her from entering the seventh grade, where she belonged.
Her small stature and thin voice were the result of a childhood injury. When she was five, a kettle of boiling water was accidentally spilled on her. Her entire body was covered in tight scars.
Of course, I didn’t believe she was that old. But then I met her older sister, who confirmed everything. Unlike the younger one, the older sister was tall, beautiful, and very confident. She quickly became a leader in her ninth-grade class. Meanwhile, the younger sister was bullied at school. Many mocked her shabby clothes and strange, high-pitched voice.
At first, I supported her for a long time and was considered her best friend. But when the whole class turned against me, I started to distance myself and avoid her. I simply gave in to typical childhood cruelty. Still, I thought I was doing alright because at least I wasn’t bullying her.
The next school year, my former friend didn’t return to school. I thought she had transferred, but it turned out she had run away to live with her middle sister at her foster parents’ house. She was tired of feeding the chickens and scavenging through dumpsters.
About seven or eight years later, I saw a beautiful young woman wearing jewelry and with stunning hair. It was her! She was gorgeous, slender, and well-dressed. We started talking, and I learned that she had begun working abroad as an escort. I felt even more upset, and we parted ways rather coldly.
The worst part came later when I learned from her grandmother that she had died. A much older man who had been supporting her beat her to death. And sadly, she left behind a child, whose fate remains unknown.
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