Again written for writer's craft, and by extension for a contest that aims to draw public attention to the third world. I don't claim to be an expert on developing countries, but I do crave criticism and this is a great deal shorter than my other offerings.
Please criticize.
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You wake up alone. You are afraid.
You pick yourself up off the ground and brush dirt and insects from your skin. Yellow morning light thrusts through cracks in the walls and ceiling, freezing fist-sized motes of dust in midair. The room has no furniture and smells of rotting apples. You crinkle your nose and feel very hungry. You cross over heaps of old clothes and garbage to a small burlap sack. Opening it, you find green bread crumbs and withered fruit. You drop the sack, your stomach roils in protest. You stare blankly at the unpainted wall and are afraid.
Blinking, your eyes feel dry and sore. Your eyelids crackle. You think of water but know you have none. You will have to walk a long way to find some, and you have not the strength to do so. The wall offers no sympathy, so you walk to a corner, squat, and relieve yourself in the dirt. You are very sick – your gut seizes. Your body has nothing to give, and after several heaves you stand and breathe rapidly to get rid of the cramps. You feel weak from the exertion, and sit on some clothes.
You do not know what to do. The door stands on one hinge and you think someone might come through it soon. You remember the last time someone did, because Mother was still here. She had died. Men came through the door and took her body, none of them stopping for you despite your pleas. You are sure that they had heard you, they must have ignored you. Mother was sick, you recall. That is why they took her, to burn her remains. Now you suppose that you are sick. You decide that you are going to die. Cold grips your chest. You are afraid.
You feel the first fingers of panic tickling your sides. Your heart beats against your ribs, which strain against your taut skin. You decide that you cannot sit here forever. You stand and feel dizzy. The clothes feel flat and dry as paper beneath your feet. It is dusted with granules of sand and small pebbles. Bugs skitter in franticly toward darker spots and bigger heaps. Your toes hurt. You take careful steps across the room and lean slightly against the door.
You peek outside. The sun bakes your face and dazzles your eyes. The air under your outstretched nose is drier but still smells of waste. You see rows of homes like yours, but only a few shuffling people. The homes are made of aluminum and wood, and lean on one another like sullen drunks. Some have no doors, others have no roofs. The people do not notice you. All are much bigger than you, menacing, and unfriendly. You quake. Hunger gnaws at you. You search for a beacon of help but find none. There is a neat building at the end of the row with two crossed red lines painted on its door, but it scares you more than anything. You despair.
You ease off of the door and let yourself fall onto your buttocks. You begin to cry. This day will be the same as yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. No one will come for you no matter how hard you cry, but you have nothing else to do.
You do not know what the letters H I V A I D S mean, because you cannot read. You will not have food or water again. You are dying alone. This is your life.
You are twelve years old.