It was the one day when she could roam the
neighborhood streets just like any other child with no notice taken of the rags
draping her tiny frame; her shoes, much too large, stiff and warped by rain, the
laces long gone; her hair, once the color of the sun, now a dirt-encrusted mass
of mats and tangles. Bright Eyes, she
was called by the others who camped under the bridge at the edge of town and,
indeed, her large green eyes shone like those of the cats who kept the river rats at bay. No one knew where she
had come from for she did not speak, but she was one of them now and being a
child afforded her no special privileges.
She blended in easily with the witches, goblins
and zombies who roamed the streets that night – beggars welcomed with a bounty
of sweet treats – and eagerly scooped up the unwanted apples thoughtlessly discarded by
children who had never felt the painful knots of an empty stomach. These she would devour on the spot, letting
the golden juice run down her chin, leaving sticky tracks of sweetness in its
wake.
Inside the houses were grownups eager to join in
the night’s fun: “Look at this little
ragamuffin, honey,” they would say, laughing as they tossed a candy bar –
sometimes two – into her outstretched bag.
As the hour grew late, she watched the others
return to the safety of their warm, clean homes where, costumes removed, they would once again transform into the children of privilege who would taunt her with words
and stones should she emerge from her world and dare to enter theirs.
But for this one night – these few hours – she was
one of them.
From the
prompt “Costume” at One-Minute Writer.
