You hear no sound in her street at two in the morning. Not even the soft trickling of dripping water from the broken faucet just down the corner could pierce this vacuum. The road is empty, deserted, bare, like a ghost town. It is painful, this silence. It is painful and eerie.
You see no movement in her street at two in the morning. There is no breeze to fill the air with freshness and life, and no vermin creep up the garbage bins to scavenge for grub. Everything is frozen into place, like a painting. It is disquieting, this stillness. It is bleak and discomforting.
Who would dare break this seemingly everlasting silence and stillness? She would. She dared to break it every night, at two in the morning. She was just that valiant, this little girl.
Footsteps. They slowly destroy the silence of the road. Something red. This splash of color shatters the uniformity of the gray road. You see her.
She doesn’t see you. And so she continues to hop down the avenue, her shoes clicking the gravel in a rhythmic pattern.
She doesn’t see you. And so she starts to do this strange dance, if you could call it that. Flailing her hands above her head and twisting one foot, then the other, she continues her strange routine.
She doesn’t see you. And so she starts to verbalize this peculiar tune, if you could call it that. Uttering one note after another, then bursting into a yet more peculiar song, she still continues her strange dance.
It is heartbreaking to watch her sing and dance like an expiring hyena. And yet, in all her artlessness, it is beautiful, grotesquely beautiful. She flutters like a limp butterfly, but still a butterfly. She trills like a broken music box, but still a music box.
No, she has not seen a theatre stage, nor theatre spotlights, but she has her own. She is a star, and she shines in the limelight of the many streetlamps along the road. The whole street is her stage, her amphitheatre, her stadium. She continues her little show until half past two in the morning. Why stop then? If you don’t know, there must only be one other who knows: her. And yet she doesn’t see you. It remains a mystery.
It is half past two in the morning, and she scuttles away. Gone is the peculiar dancing. Gone is the strange singing. You see no color but gray left on the street. You hear no sound, not even the soft trickling of dripping water just down the corner. It is no longer two in the morning, and you wait until it is.