Indian No. 17
She stares at the grey, brick wall. Her face is contorted in agony. Her small, bleeding body looks so minute and helpless in the dark, misty alley. The person who had bashed her up had left long ago, yet she keeps up a steady blood flow. She doesn't know where the blood is coming from, all she feels is pain running around her body, never ceasing, always going. Like a heart. Her heart is beating weakly, she knows she is dying.
She doesn't know why the person who bashed her up did. She thought that he was just another man, dressed in leather. She doesn't know why he turned to her and smashed her in the face. It might be because she was Indian. She doesn't know. She doesn't care.
She doesn't want to die. Her face relaxes. Just for a moment. Then it twists back into the expression of pain. Rain starts to fall; her body feels a kind of relief. Sticky blood washes down her side in torrents.
A young child stops in the alley. He doesn't see her. All he sees is her Indian jacket. The one made of purple and green velvet, studded with small jewels and mirrors. The child picks it up and runs out of the alley. Not seeing the dying body, not hearing its faint groan. All the child hears is the rain. The rain falling.
The body stirs. The girl wants to get up, but knows it is no use. She will die.
Her mind goes through all the happiness in her life. The sunshine, the laughter, the friendships. She thinks of them all.
Several hours later the child returns. An old Indian lady holds his hand. Ignoring the rain, the child says 'Here. I found it here.' The lady walks stiffly to the body. The still lifeless body. She bends over it and peers at the girl's hard, cold face. The girl is dead. The old lady knows it. She hobbles out of the alley and returns with a policewoman. She points to the body and says, 'My granddaughter.' The policewoman gets out her notebook and writes.
'Indian no.17' She turns to the old lady who is staring at the body. Her are eyes very wet. Her face contorted in agony. Like death itself. The policewoman begins to write and the rain just keeps falling.