The Little Smashed Girl

A seasonal short story by

SHE didn’t even have to ask for money or say anything because they usually just gave her a sad smile and some change which she would store in the little tin box that she carried around with her as if her life depended on it.

All things being relative, this was a good spot because it was opposite the entrance to the Clarendon St Church.

Ladies in nice coats and Brown Thomas bags went to Mass there. It was always busy and they would sometimes stop there to light a candle and... well… reflect. Then they would notice her better.

It wasn’t that people weren’t kind. It was more that she didn’t feel it so much any more.

Her heart was as numb as her feet. It was as if she was encased in a glass bell jar. She could see out and they could see in, but it didn’t matter, because neither could really imagine being in the other’s shoes.

It wasn’t always like that. Early on, she did feel; too much, everything, the shouting and the thumps when her Da took the drink, the worry and the constant struggle. But once she actually found herself on the street with nowhere to go, something changed. It was her perspective on herself. It was a turning point and it became harder to pick herself up after that.

Sometimes someone would bring her coffee and a sugary doughnut from Bewley’s. She liked the heat and the sweetness. She would peep into the cafe when no one was looking because she liked the coloured glass windows when the light came through them and altered reality like magic.

There were nice windows in the church too. The fact that they were actually broken pieces of glass put together more beautifully made them seem really special to her. It made her hopeful although she didn’t understand why.

Some people tried to make conversation but she didn’t like any more attention than was necessary.

She just let them talk and they might give her money for a hostel, which she may or may not use for that purpose. Even though her life existed in public, exposed and skinless, she really just wanted to be left alone.

There was help too, of course, soup and care kits and kind words, which she liked but it wasn’t enough to change her situation.

After all, here she was, sleeping on the street. She didn’t think about the future, couldn’t really see it with getting through the day and the night especially.

The people from Simon and St Vincent de Paul did their best but the thing was they couldn’t quite fix it. There were too many like her and more all the time. They looked out for each other, in so far as you could. But mostly you had to look out for yourself.

A long time ago when she was very small and something hurt she put it in the tin box. That way it was all more manageable. Otherwise she could be overwhelmed with the hurt. She always found ways to be OK.

Now the box held a more tangible kind of pain relief paraphernalia, a burn-marked lightbulb, tinfoil, steel wool, a glass tube and some straws. Emergency tools of survival.

She wasn’t an addict or anything, it was just the odd time when things got bad.

She didn’t feel sorry for herself even though she saw that people felt sorry for her. She still had dreams. They involved feeling safe, shelter you could rely on, soft warm beds and nice food whenever you were hungry.

Sometimes she imagined she was sitting toasty in front of a fire until the grey cement under her became transparent like a veil and she even imagined the smell of roast turkey, the scent of the fir tree at Christmas with the fairy lights all the way to heaven and the angel on the top that would make it all better.

In one way she liked that they looked at her with sympathy, but in another way it made her feel worse because it made her feel further away from them. It was confusing. Kindness was good but for all the soup and sandwiches, she didn’t believe her life would change.

The cold made everyone more preoccupied and they were so busy, on their phones as they walked, a frenzied air about the place.

Once she had clean fingernails and her hair was shiny and her eyes were bright and blue instead of dull and grey. How was it that colour had gone out of everything? All except the stained-glass windows.

Sometimes in the night she would feel hands creeping under her clothes and she would be too far gone to stop them. Part of her didn’t mind too much because she liked to think they were just trying to warm themselves. And sometimes they were.

In her stupor, maybe after taking too much whiskey to warm her, she barely felt the fingers tracing the scars on her body and the tracks of pain and survival.

Sometimes if she phoned at the right time in the night, she stayed in the hostel, but it was horrible there and they wouldn’t let you in if you’d had a drop so often that wasn’t an option. They said she had slipped through the cracks.

That’s what she was now, one of the homeless. She was just here, in her skin, in her life, trying to get by. She wondered how other people did it. She wished she had shoes that fit her. These ones hurt and she took them off until her toes were numb. Home No Home Homeless Hopeless How did it happen?

But no point dwelling on that. Only made her feel worse. For now, she had enough to get her through the night and she could always let one of those fellas warm himself on her.

And there were the extra donations from the church goers in town for the sales.

In the morning, she would get breakfast at the Capuchin Day Centre. It was all about getting by.

It was dark so early these days and she knew she would have to find a place to settle for the night with the others when the shops closed. Two or three would gather together as there was a bit of safety in numbers. Not too many, or that in itself could be dangerous. You never knew what was going to happen.

It had turned very cold suddenly. A flurry of snow was beginning to fall like a dusting of icing sugar that could make the ugliest scene beautiful. It was the day before New Year.

The shoppers were moving in fast motion now, a blur of humanity, and she turned to her tin box and counted the money.

Maybe just a little rock. Made like crumbs from the fairy tale to find her way home. She closed her eyes and remembered the time before her grandmother died. She had lived with her in her house after her Ma left. That was before things fell apart and her father drowned in the drink. They lost the house.

Now that she was 16 and old enough to look after herself things were different. Except now everything good seemed to get further out of reach all the time. Almost like a dream in reverse.

After she had run away it was easy to go astray. Drugs were everywhere. At first it was fantastic. No more sting. But then it was sore and she needed more so she tried to stop. That’s where she was now.

But just tonight it was too cold and too miserable to bear being in her own skin without a little bit more.

Later that night, she looked up at the sky, a star fell like a comet, leaving a trail of light. It was like magic. That altered reality again. Her grandmother had told her the shooting star meant a soul was going to heaven.

She was tired now. She had used the lighter until it was almost emptied along with the white crumbs from the box.

She no longer felt cold. She had a pain in her chest and her heart was racing like it would jump out of her skin. She had enough left for one more time. Then she would stop.

Each time the lighter flickered she had seen images, half familiar, too good to be true. The comforting shape of her grandmother. Smiling, calm, her hand outstretched, the girl wanted the floating feeling to last forever. “Take me with you,” she whispered and imagined herself fleeing, flying off into the other world of the beautiful shining night sky.

She couldn’t stop now. She had to have the feeling one more time.

In the morning, some of the shoppers stopping off to light candles at Clarendon St Church noticed she wasn’t there. Wondered for a second where she might be. But it was another day and everyone was so busy trying to stay on top of everything.

They found her, curled up in the foetal position in a doorway.

She looked like a little girl again, an expression of innocence and peace on her deathly pale face. They left flowers. They cried, protested outside the Dail, gave more money to the homeless charities.

How could this happen in a rich and caring society like Ireland. How could it happen? Again.

But mostly it was too hard to see and so they shut their eyes again quickly.

‘She couldn’t stop. She had to have the feeling one more time’