It was a normal morning in New York. The sky was cloudy; some rain drops fell down on the streets. The morning traffic played its song, while bureau worker, school kids, teenager, call girls, homeless people and every other sort of people passed on to their business.

It was nothing unusual this day, except maybe for a certain girl called Rose.

And this girl was me.

I groaned. My head ached terribly, and the flavor of cheap beer in my throat was more than just disgusting. It made me throw up.

I opened my eyes, but when I saw where I was, I closed them immediately. It was no use; once that I was awake, I couldn't ignore the fact that I was lying in a huge mountain of trash. A stinky, dirty mountain of trash. I sighed.

It wasn't that I was very hygienically – after all, I lived on the streets of NYC - but it was still disgusting to wake up in a place like that.

To tell from the location and how I felt, I got drunk the last night (as always), spend my whole money to pay the bill (as always) and ended up in this trash mountain (not as always). That was pretty much everything I could recall about the last night – I had a total blackout, and honestly, I didn't wanted to know it too badly.

I cursed the world, the trash I've slept inside, myself and an innocent bird nearby, while I tried to stand up without getting sick. I hated mornings. And I hated hangovers even more. But who didn't?

I sighed again. With no money left, it wouldn't be easy to find something to eat and a place to take a shower. Still, I got no other choice left than moving on, granted I didn't want to be caught by some cops.

Moving on was easier said than done. I felt terrible, even worse than normal. I could barely look straight ahead, and I knew, if a cop would see me like that, I'd have a very big problem. But crying wouldn't help, so I moved on, always near the walls at the side of the pathway, trying not to look too drunk and ignoring the looks of the passengers around me – most of them disgusted. But who cared? I didn't mess up their life, they left me alone. That's how life worked.

I stopped at a shop window to check up on how bad I actually looked. It was worse than expected. I saw a skinny, short girl with short brown hair and grey eyes, wearing dirty clothes; old jeans, way too long, old ragged sneakers, a green T-Shirt and a leather jacket, like the jeans several sizes too big. That was me. I've never been a beauty, and I actually never really cared. But today I looked like a zombie.

I had eye rings as black as the make-up of a goth, my skin looked unhealthy and worn out. My hair was a mess, even compared to how it normally looked like, and I smelled awful. I groaned. I didn't just look like a zombie. I felt like one, too.

"Hey, you! Get lost!"

I looked up. A man, a lot bigger and heavier than me, stood there, shaking his fist in my direction. I guessed he was the owner of the shop and afraid some people might think I belonged to him. I wasn't in the mood to pick a fight, so I just pulled a face and got lost.