Cold

This is my entry for the picture prompt comp, about the reality of the snow to the average homeless person on a London street.

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1. Cold

It was dark. Cold. Tiny snowflakes the size of babies' finger nails fluttered down onto the chewing gum covered ground. Some people would call it romantic, but I call it deadly. In fact, I could spot about a dozen couples holding hands, kissing, leaning over the bridge above the frozen Thames: loving life. They couldn't see me. Even if they were standing right in front of me, they still wouldn't look. People blanked me out. Pretended I didn't exist. That's the thing about being a homeless teenager. Londoners freeze me out, as if I'm going to knife them or something. People think I'm dodgy. But I'm just cold. I remember being a little kid, and being so excited about the winter's first sprinkling of snow that I almost couldn't stand myself. But now I dread it. Snow is the difference between me being alive or dead. But do people care? No. Everyone is cold in this city, in every way possible.

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