Kids have the spunk to bleed her to misery. And these little rascals, piqued by little brains reigning in lawless curiosity, have been too fucking eager to test that theory handsy.

She'd scuffle her boots through the alley's chipped pavement. Drag her muscles weighing of carcass and labor. And her mech arm whirs low, smittening the rats' heads to jut from corners, gawk, and dare their grubby fingers to approach. Eyes religiously set on the metal.

Touch it, and you’ll lose the hand.

They'd would bail at a scurry and hog their snickers with them. Quiet would be forsaken, befriended by her trudges home.

This, she could stomach.

You, twenty years her junior, tramping by her orbit, and sporting this admirable slash punchable audacity when you ask, "Long day?" is not.

Sevika cold shoulders the query. Too lustrous for what this night lacks. "Longer if you don’t piss off."

And you wager her patience will extend if you'd just sloth your steps a tad. Lag some inches behind, but just right. "Better?"

Smartass.

The rounds of glares, the rally of "banters" you mistake for requite, she skips. Skips and storms and mucks her back against her shitty apartment's scarred door with a dull thud.

A tired exhale escapes.

Door shunning is the regular for the epilogue, the adieu to your stray puppy steps in tow.

Because this must end.

Because she's worn down to the marrow, held together by bolts and bruises. Tanks hits for a cause where she, at times, thirsts for bleach in place of lukewarm beer. Carries this planet of baggage no one can volunteer to lift.

She's a storm and you dance 'neath its brooding clouds. Oblivious to thunder strikes.

Three knocks rock the weatherbeaten oak.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

She wrenches the entrance open, hinges wailing. Poor knob nearly popped its last rusting screw out. "I told you to scram, didn't I?" she barks.

"Go chase someone your own age." She's choking the knob's neck more, pending to slam into place. But the act's delayed for reasons unknown