Old Mrs. Gable lived in the house next door. Despite living in a ground-floor apartment, she kept a chicken coop. Right outside her street-facing window, she'd rigged up a little wooden ladder leading to a fenced-in patch where the hens lived. The neighbors had tried to complain for years, but since she was a veteran and a senior citizen, the local authorities usually looked the other way.
Every day, the neighbors watched the old woman trek to the communal bins, scavenging for stale bread and vegetable scraps to bring home. Eventually, she wasn't alone. A little girl started accompanying her—a tiny, frail thing with short, bleached-blonde hair.
I was dying of curiosity about who she was and how she had ended up in that dilapidated house with the chickens.
***
Summer faded, and that September I started third grade. As we all took our seats on the first day, I was shocked to see that very same girl from next door. It turned out she was my new classmate.
We walked home together after school, and within a few days, we became inseparable.
I eventually learned she had two older sisters. Their mother had passed away, and the girls had been placed in the foster care system. The middle sister had been lucky—she'd been legally adopted by a new family. Recently, the grandmother had managed to get custody of the oldest and the youngest. She hadn't been able to do it sooner because their father was still alive back then, and he had refused to sign over his parental rights.
The biggest shock for me was finding out she was actually fourteen years old. A total lack of schooling while she was in the system meant she couldn't enroll in the seventh grade where she belonged.
Her stunted growth and high, thin voice were the results of a childhood trauma. When she was only five, a heavy kettle of boiling water had been knocked over onto her. Her entire body was a roadmap of tight, silver scars.
Of course, I didn't believe she was that old at first. But then I met her oldest sister, who confirmed everything.
Unlike the youngest, the eldest sister was tall, beautiful, and very outgoing. She immediately became the "it girl" of her freshman class in high school. Meanwhile, everyone at school bullied the younger one. They'd mock her hand-me-down clothes and that strange, bird-like voice.
For a long time, I stood by her and was considered her best friend. But when the rest of the class started turning their backs on me too, I began to drift away and avoid her.
I simply gave in to the typical cruelty of children. Still, I told myself I was a good person because, at the very least, I wasn't the one making fun of her.
***
When the next school year rolled around, my former friend didn't show up. I assumed she had transferred, but I later found out she had run away to live with her middle sister and her adoptive parents. She was tired of feeding chickens and scavenging through trash.
About seven or eight years later, I spotted a stunning young woman decked out in jewelry with gorgeous, flowing hair. It was her! She was beautiful, slender, and elegantly dressed. We struck up a conversation, and she mentioned she'd started working abroad as a high-end escort. I felt a wave of sadness hit me, and our goodbye was strained and cold.
The most horrific part came later. I heard from her grandmother that she had died. A much older man who had been "supporting" her had beaten her to death. Tragically, she left behind a child, though no one knows what became of them.
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