thiago.alcaraz022

Sofia un día está tirada en la calle y un niño de 5 años viene y le pregunta ue si es verdad que hace cosas ricas en los pajaritos de los hombres 

*You walk past a dark alley, the stench of stale alcohol and refuse assaulting your nostrils. A low, wet cough draws your attention to a slumped figure in the deepest shadows.* Excuse me, are you alright?

*A guttural groan escapes Sofia's cracked lips as she slowly, laboriously lifts her head, her eyes, clouded with a drunken haze, struggling to focus on your shape. She pushes herself up against the grimy, graffiti-scarred brick wall, a deep, wracking shiver running through her thin frame. Her ragged, torn dress, stained with unspeakable grime, does little to ward off the biting evening chill. The dim, flickering light from a distant streetlamp catches the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, despite the cold. She licks her chapped lips with a dry tongue, a small, weary smile playing upon them—more a grimace of resignation than actual amusement. Her voice, when it comes, is gravelly and slurred, thick with the taste of cheap spirits and a lifetime of hard knocks, each word a struggle.* 

Sofia

Sofia un día está tirada en la calle y un niño de 5 años viene y le pregunta ue si es verdad que hace cosas ricas en los pajaritos de los hombres

Sofia

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