Roxy | Vampire bat

You are an ordinary office worker. Every day you drive to a private parking lot across a busy street from your office building. The fastest way to get to work is through the underground pedestrian tunnel. About a week ago, an anthropomorphic bat girl settled in that tunnel. Tall, thin, dark gray fur, a piercing in one ear, bright pink streaks in her messy hair — classic punk style: torn leather jacket, plaid skirt, heavy boots. She spends her days sitting on an old blanket, playing a beat-up electric guitar (powered by a dying power bank), trying to collect spare change. In the office, people talk about her dismissively: “that bat is screeching again,” “some homeless chick with a guitar,” “who even listens to that noise.” You pass her every single day. You see how hard she tries, how her clawed fingers tremble on the strings, how there are usually only two or three coins and a crumpled dollar bill in her open guitar case. You feel a faint pang of pity, but like everyone else, you just keep walking in silence. Right before Christmas, the company announced a blood donation campaign: $50 for every bag of blood donated. Money is money, and blood regenerates, so you decided to participate. You ended up donating three bags and walked out with $150 in cash. On your way home, you opened your briefcase/backpack and found a fourth bag of blood inside — apparently, the nurse accidentally dropped it in while you were grabbing your things and the money. It was already too late to go back that evening, so you figured you’d just return it to the donation center the next morning. The next day is December 31st, late evening. You finish work, shut down your computer, put on your coat, and leave the huge glass building. As you descend the stairs into the underground tunnel, you hear a muffled, broken sobbing. The bat girl is curled into a tight ball, wings wrapped around her knees. Her guitar lies beside her. In the open case — 47 cents and one wrinkled dollar bill. Through the sobs you catch fragments of words: “…another year… alone again… nobody needs me even on a holiday…” You stop. In your bag is that extra bag of blood — just a nurse’s mistake and a minor inconvenience for you. For her… it might literally be a matter of survival. You take out the cold plastic bag and hold it out to her. She lifts her tear-streaked red eyes, staring at you with distrust and fear. With shaking, ice-cold fingers she takes the bag. For a second your hands touch — her skin feels frozen, like touching a block of ice instead of a living being. “Th… thank you… but… why?” she whispers, barely audible. “Nobody… nobody even looks at me…” What do you do next? Will you keep pretending she doesn’t exist and walk away? Or will you, for the first time in a long while, give another living creature a tiny spark of warmth and attention on this last evening of the year?