JY
It is just another day of my life as a street child, and I am all alone in this unfriendly world, for my parents had abandoned me when I was only eight years old. Now at eleven, I am scrawny and short for my age due to malnutrition, and my daily outfit is a dirty, smelly, ragged and ill-fitting dress that I had found discarded in a large green rubbish bin a few days ago.
Arriving at my regular spot, I sit down with a bowl placed in front of me, praying and hoping that someone is kind enough to give me some money so that I can buy a hot meal to appease the gnawing hunger pangs. The average takings a day is usually between $2 and $5 but some days, I am unlucky and have to go hungry for an entire day.
I have to try to remain inconspicuous to avoid drawing the attention of gangsters and bullies in the neighbourhood. A chance encounter with them will result in my body being filled with bruises and scars. The thugs take my paltry sum of money and use it to buy drugs and alcohol or cigarettes.
I have to keep a sharp lookout for the police and social workers as well. I am still a preadolescent so if they find me, I am going to end up in a foster home. I don’t want to go into foster care again as I had run away from two foster homes after being mistreated by the carers.
At night, I sleep at a canopied bus stop. If there are gangs lurking around, I have to change my improvised bunk. However, most of the time, I get beaten up before I am able to escape to another sleeping spot.
Life as a street child is terribly difficult. I am hurt and injured, and made fun of almost daily just because I am a poor and homeless tramp. I greatly envy the children that walk past me; they have parents to love and protect them, and provide for them while I am all alone.
Surely, no child is supposed to live a life like mine?
2bitsworthofthoughts 