"Merry Christmas!"

I scowl, kicking a stone to vent my feelings. And at that moment....riiiiip! I look down at my feet, unsurprised to see my bare toes poking out of a large, gaping hole of my tattered sneakers. Sighing, I pull it off slowly and after a second thought, I take off the other shoe. Almost straight away, my toes turn an unpleasant tinge of blue. But too used to the cold, I ignore the painful throb and think of the feasts that await the several rich families the night after tomorrow. Turkey, they'll have, I'm sure. Delicious, juicy turkey with well seasoned potatoes, Christmas biscuits, puddings....

I grit my teeth, grinding them in effort to not think of my empty stomach that growls like thunder at every minute that goes by.

Lying on the dirty, stinking blanket that once belonged to my mother, I count the seconds that pass. "One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi..."

And at sixty, snow begins to drift down softly and gently. Christmas bells have died into the night as well as the laughs of 'goodbyes' and 'Merry Christmas'. Hundreds of red-and-green twinkle lights wrap around the banisters of the apartments' balconies. And through the windows of large estates, I can see Christmas trees decorated lavishly with tinsels and baubles. All around me are the several luxuries I could never have.

***

Waking up on the morning of Christmas Eve, I immediately notice that the scenery has changed overnight. The apartments, houses and the shops have remained adorned, all right. But a thick layer of snow has blanketed everything, making the whole of the Christmas atmosphere more nostalgic than ever. Even I, a freezing, dirty street girl, cannot deny that.

Bells are ringing once again, signalling the time creeping closer and closer to the much anticipated day. And from my crude, depressing spot that I call 'home', I can see the jubilant children, girls dressed in checked, festive red and green dresses and boys clothed with clean, white button up shirts. No doubt they'll be celebrating all day today and tomorrow. I watch hungrily as families exit the bakery across from me, clutching brown, paper bags, and bringing out the delicious aroma of freshly baked goods with them. One woman sees me staring and her face twists into sympathy. She steps out of the midst of the large group, and walks tentatively towards my spot, reaching into her bag, and pulling out three, plump, delicately iced buns. My stomach growls at the sight of the food.

"Merry Christmas, dear." The good lady says sweetly, handing me the buns.

"Thank you, ma'am. And Merry Christmas to you,too." I stammer gratefully.

She smiles, the corners of her eyes creasing. Then she returns to the group who are all staring at her with shocked eyes.

"What were you thinking?" A man, her husband I think, scolds her.

"Are you out of your mind? Giving those to a...a beggar?" A woman who has the same hazel eyes and auburn hair as her, exclaims, shooting me a glare.

The lady who'd given me the buns, shrugged with a smile. "She looked so hungry. What else could I do?"

"You're too nice sometimes, Isabelle." The other woman sighs.

And when they're completely out of sight, my teeth are already tearing through one of the buns which I finish in just seconds. Then I'm gulping down the second pastry, and then finally, devouring the third.

As I'm licking my fingers, my stomach rumbles, no longer with hunger, but with perfect contentment. What a way to start the morning of Christmas Eve!

Then all of a sudden, my attention goes to my feet which are by now like ice and are almost purple with new, unfeeling frostbite. I must get 'new' shoes before my toes fall off. Perhaps I'd better search the bins in front of the big houses. I always manage to find something in those.

Which is exactly what I'm doing half an hour later. I find a huge, grey manor just a few kilometers away from my spot which to my delight and hope, has an absurd orange coloured, overflowing bin filled with days old food and faded, worn clothes. Of course I check around for the owners, in case they're close by, or staring out the window, something that has happened once and which for my fingers are crossed to never occur again.

But as I'm confidently rummaging through the grimy contents of the bin, out of the blue, I feel heavy breathing down my back. I freeze, immediately realizing that someone is there. And that someone is most likely the resident of the house. I cringe as I turn slowly, arms up, poised as if in surrender.

My eyes widen automatically and his does too. I lower my arms, and that's all I can do. Is the guy, the man, standing in front of me, the person who I really think he is? And judging from his astonished, recognized expression, he is.

And in a blink of an eye, his face has gotten colourless and stony. Cold and sharp.

"Michelle Jones." He says in a cool tone. "Why on earth are you going through my bin?"

I gulp nervously. "Peter Parker." I breathe.