Tina Brunet

Seven Eleven

She's often there when I'm walking home. Perched on top of the hill, leaning against the white bricks of the 7-eleven building. She sits on a concrete garden, usually with a sleeping bag crumbled up in a heap next to her. The lights from the store bathing her in an artificial glow, but she seems to be in shades of black and grey making her look more like a shadow. Her face is dark, some days I think it's her addictions that have etched themselves on her, like a permanent reminder that she will always be captive to them.