The girl looked at the crowds of people, like a flow, massive and unbearable, pressing in on her. The car sat in front of her, a dent in it's front bumper. She looked at the red gown hanging over her shoulders and puzzled to herself. I thought this was blue.
There had to be a better place to be. A sweeter smelling place.
Come with me, the voice said.
She looked around, her dark eyes narrowing. Her nostrils twitched, sour, offended. Something made her head pull back and away. Sulfurous.
Come with me, the voice said again.
Against her better judgement, the girl smiled. It was a little boy. Only two years old, maybe. That he could speak seemed a miracle. He held out his small, delicate hand. He tilted his head, once, twice.
Come with me, he said.
She took his hand.
Her soaking wet red gown slipped from her shoulders. She stood up out of the doorway, let the boy take her away from the crowd that pressed in her. The faces scared her, the way they looked at her. The car idled, bored.
She walked away from the accident and no one seemed to notice.
She looked back at her body on the ground and smiled. Goodbye.
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.