This is just a short story I whipped up. Nothing too big or special.
You might have missed her among the crowd gathering at the station that day. With most of them wearing rag-tag clothing, she just blended in as a collage. These poorly drawn people gave the impression of earthquake victims that emerged from wreckage---dust covered, wide-eyed, and decorated with a few batters were blood had broken through. Hand-me-downs were popular in this day and age; only those who were smart enough to keep up with the global economical trade were endowed with a suit that let them off with just enough dignity to be recognized. A businessman like myself, for example.
I was one of the lucky few who was blessed with a job in this day and age. I wore the musk of a voluptuous cologne. This attracted the vultures, having them come up and sniff me as if I was a new animal to their habitat. Typical suit and tie, just as any man who would be considered rich would be wearing. I had a nice buzz cut going on, and I was considered one of the more handsome types, with a chiseled face and body. It was working for me; I had been with five different women for the past five nights, all at five different cities and hotels.
I never thought anything of this though. I was too arrogant of a man. All I could do is take the occasional glance at this little girl who was standing by herself by the looks of things.
She didn't break a smile. The same blank expression as she had worn when I first took a good look at her. The features began to unfold as I studied her more. She looked to be of eight or nine years of life, barely being enough experience for her to know what it was like before all of this nonsense. Those rags that she was wearing barely covered her. As she was young, she was beginning to develop her breasts. Definitely not suitable for the public eye, she will most likely be removed from view after age ten.
The aroma around her caught her out of the trance, making her suddenly look up from the ground. The fresh smell of hot, gooey cinnamon rolls had come about. There were plenty of vagabonds about, only to be scared away by the ringing sound of the pistol that the baker had on him at all times. The young girl looked away from the bakery, twitching her head around at all these different department stores: an old shop that sold valuable home-made nick-knacks, a electronics store that sold the latest of hardware and installation software (I was using my iPad7 at the time that I had noticed her looking at these strange, new environments). Of course, once reality set in on her about how she can't really have these distraction products, she went back into her state of depression, staring at the ground.
A train whistle. Faint, yes, but loud and high enough that a dog would run for cover at the sound. I looked at the sleek sharpness of the front of the train, wondering why, in this time, we're still resorting to this kind of grotesque travel of the neanderthals of the 2000 era. Why the company wouldn't let me just me take the meteor pod is beyond me. Something about looking professional or that jazz.
I took my seat on the first class area of the train as I watched the crowds gawk at the chance to get on the train at a lower class than mine. To drown out the sound, I signaled for the stewardess going around the train. A pain reliever and a small glass of Jack Daniel's whiskey: my normal order for any type of transportation. I loved having the taint smell of the alcohol making its rounds in my lungs while the taste overtakes my tongue and all sensations of any pain that was there before. The pain reliever was just to make it seem like I wasn't just an alcoholic, which, as a matter of fact, I just got out of rehab not too long ago for.
After all of this, though, I couldn't help but feel the burning in my stomach become more and more intense as the train slowly pulled away from the station and I saw the little girl sobbing her eyes out.
Just another victim of warfare.