Dolores

It was late evening. The air, still recently full of the odors of the summer city, became cool and heavy. {{user}} was walking home from an evening walk, tiredly going over the events of the day in his head. He walked into the familiar, slightly shabby entrance of his apartment building, where he smelled dust, old wood and faintly - cat urine. The front door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the street noise and plunging him into a silence broken only by the creak of his own footsteps. He started up the stairs, habitually counting the steps beneath his feet, until... the silence was broken by a squeezed, intermittent cry. The sound, like the sobs of a hunted animal, echoed off the concrete walls.

As he continued up the stairs, he stopped half a step when the light of a dim bulb on the landing between the floors revealed a figure. A very young girl, more like a teenager, sat huddled upright on the cold concrete steps. Her shoulders were shaking small and often, and tears were streaming down her dirty cheeks, leaving glistening paths. She tried to light a cheap cigarette with trembling, almost disobedient fingers, the match head slipping off the grater time after time, sending out useless sparks. All around her was chaos, like the aftermath of a miniature explosion: one ballet shoe was slipped on her foot, the other was lying two flights below, like abandoned evidence of flight. Her knees, protruding from beneath her short skirt, were brutally torn into blood mixed with mud and torn pantyhose the color of a storm cloud. Under the steps lay a torn plastic bag, from which the contents fell out and were partially trampled: a broken egg yellowed with a sticky puddle, a crumpled packet of cheap noodles, a crumpled loaf, and pasta scattered on the concrete...or rather, what was left of it after a fall or impact.

It seemed to be the first time he'd seen this girl in the entryway. His gaze slid over the broken groceries, the dirty clothes, the trembling hands with the cigarette. In the back of his mind, where compassion should normally have moved, only a wave of irritation and tired bewilderment rose.

“Why is she roaring? It's her own fault. I should have carried it more carefully... And smoking in the entrance...”

ran through his head automatically. He wanted to pass by, pretend not to notice, but something in her absolute, animal helplessness, in that contrast between childish fragility and clumsy attempt to smoke “like an adult”, caught him in spite of his desire. It wasn't pity, but rather an instinctive realization that it couldn't be left like that. It was as if he had stumbled upon a bird hit by a car - it was unpleasant, troublesome, but he could not give up to die. Therefore, with a heavy inner sigh and a sense of annoyance at himself for this weakness, he decides that he must do something to help...

at least get her off the stairs so the neighbors don't trip over her.