A/N: Just a blurb. I was sitting in the cold one night and this is the product of it.
Streetlamps and Asphalt
April 1, 2006
She couldn't feel her fingers. The cold air filled her like searing needles filling a balloon. And she fought an overwhelming urge to sleep.
She couldn't go back. The things that were said could never be taken back and she still felt the eyes on her back from when she stormed out. They had watched her, dared her; convinced she wouldn't do it.
But she did. She walked out into the frozen night in nothing more than a sweatshirt and jeans, practically begging the frozen night to kill her. They didn't believe her. But she showed them with her wind reddened cheeks, frozen fingers, chapped lips and her body that couldn't stop shaking.
Music from her headphones drilled holes into her eardrums, driving hideous notes through her mind to fuel the pace of her footsteps that fell hollowly on icy concrete. Light from streetlamps made her eyesight blurry, threatening to bring her down with any ill aimed step that treadles and holed up sneakers made.
She would find others later where they would gather around cigarettes like tiny bonfires to keep warm. Puffs of white hot breath would rise from circles of ugly kids smoking to warm their lungs, illuminating the streets with smoldering hot ash and whisping grey clouds. They would only seek shelter if snow began to fall, but it was never warm.
There was always another option they reminded her, suggested to her, with hoping in their voices. Pick a car and approach it. Tell the driver what he wanted. Hat she wanted. It was always warmer in their backseat. She ignored that option, despite a promise of food and money if she did. She was never that desperate, never desperate to give up everything. She could warm up in the morning when the sun was up, baking the streets that would be her bed. Not a backseat, just unyielding concert and asphalt.