It’s bound to leave a mess, the small thing with singed paper for skin, trailing ash and blood like the other careless brats of its kind. Sterile white walls and spotless orange cabinets frown at it but at least it won’t be here long, not with its decaying toes barely hanging off the chair’s edge, hair greyer than its mother could dream of. Filthy scrounging blood clings to its withered face and seals one eye, while the other, dull and black, stares into nothing, towards nothing. Even then, the picture of it leaves a stain. Unfortunate, aimless thing, can’t manage to keep the colour of its cheap shirt from fading beneath dust. A cut-out from an old photograph propped up on now’s mantelpiece, touching where it shouldn’t, pressing marks in it. How foolish, thinking it can sit back in our hard-earned civilisation.