The next day, after I had made my way back to the alley, I woke up to find a basket by my head, with a label tied to the handle. It read,

“Lydia- Merry Christmas! Your friend, Georgia Partridge” I smiled, Georgia, the baker’s daughter, took every opportunity to show her ‘Kindness and Acceptance of all,’ as she put it. I looked inside the basket to see a few baked goods, half a loaf of bread, a small bundle of money, and a needle and black thread. I ripped a piece of bread from the loaf and ate it quickly, then carried the basket towards the corner where I hid my books. I pulled out a book so that I could fit the basket in the space, and I felt a rough hand on my shoulder. Another hand ripped the book from my grasp, and I tried to stand up.

“Give. That. Back,” I said, angry. I turned around to see a man wearing thick gloves, he had one hand on my shoulder, and another man next to him held my book. I tried to rip the man’s hand off my shoulder, but he just smiled,

“Now, what do we have here?” he said, looking me up and down.

“¡Saca tus manos verdes de me!” I said, knowing that anything I said in English would get me in trouble if repeated to any official. The man holding the book walked towards me,

“Oh, you think you’re smart?” he said, menacingly. The one holding my shoulder stepped back, and I straightened up. The next thing I saw was his hand, coming towards my face. I heard a crack, and felt a sharp pain, and I put my hand to my nose. When I drew it away, my fingers were stained with blood. I ducked a second punch, and ran for the man that held my book. Before he could react, I kicked him in the stomach and he doubled over, allowing me to grab my book. “Maybe you’re not just a pathetic woman then,” the first man said, and I watched in horror as 2 more men joined the two that I was fighting, one of them holding a pistol. In panic, I pulled a wooden-handled dagger from the sheath that was sewn into the inside of my boot. It didn’t seem to faze the gang, however, and they kept approaching. Someone grabbed my arm, and I slashed his elbow with my dagger, forcing him to let go, but not before a pistol was pressed to my head. I froze,

“What the hell do you want with me?” I asked, panicking. One of the members of what I know realized was a gang of students, between 18 and 21, smirked, and said,

“What’s life without a little fun? Also, we could use that money, and we wouldn’t say no to some free food, would we?” the rest of the gang shook their heads, and one of them grabbed the basket. This pushed me over the line,

“Give. That. Back!” I growled, brandishing my dagger. All that mattered was that I walked away from there with my life and my money, and I turned towards the person on my right, who grabbed my wrist. He attempted to wrest the knife from my grip, but I flicked my wrist and made a deep gash in his finger. He drew his hand away, and I felt the pistol against my head move slightly, as if the person holding it was re-adjusting his grip. I flinched, fear taking over.

“She can’t be allowed to tell anyone about this. If we’re found out, it’s prison for us. Let’s teach the little brat a lesson,” the person whom I had cut said. This could be where I died, after so many years of outlasting the cold, the heat, and the gangs of students.

“What do you think? Kill her, or leave her wounded, to die alone,” the person holding the gun said, smirking, but I could tell that he was dead serious.

“She’s got no family to worry or care about her, from the looks of it. Little street rat. She’s a woman anyway, who needs her?” another member said, and nodded to the person holding the gun. My wrist was still being held by the man, and my heart raced. I felt the gun jolt as it was cocked, and twisted my hand from the grip of the person holding me. I knocked the gun as the bullet was fired, and I felt it zoom past me, before it hit the arm of the person holding my basket. He dropped the basket, and curled up, cradling his arm. My heart raced even faster, I had just potentially shot someone. The gang left, going to get help for the member who was shot, but it happened in a blur to me. I picked up the basket, still shaken, and hid it in the small compartment. I sat down in the snow, shaking. If anyone from the gang reported me, there was no doubt that I would lose any case in court, and I would be sent to prison, which would ruin my life. Going to an orphanage or even worse, an asylum, would ruin me, I knew it, I would never be the same again. I took a deep breath and rose to my feet, ready for the day.

"It's Christmas Eve, come on, be happy Lydia," I told myself, then put on a smile, and went to the seamstresses, ready to work.