Steps
November 2, 1921
This is the first time I have ever owned a notebook. I’m not sure quite how to start, as I am not used to communicating of any kind. Some might say that I am shy, even deathly so. I prefer the word “thoughtful”. There is not really a point to writing this, besides making myself feel less alone. I am different than those I see on the streets. They have somewhere to go, and based on their quick pace and worried expressions, it seems vital to their existence. I don’t belong anywhere. I live here, in my stairwell, because it is the one place I can hide from the world that stares me down with its glaring eyes. Eyes telling me that I have never belonged and never will. Eyes that have made their message more than clear. The blanket wrapped around my arms can barely warm my hands enough to give them sufficient motion. I have already said too much about myself. I should stop trying to become someone I am not and keep my words inside, like rocks in the pit of my stomach.
November 19, 1921
The fact that I am writing again is a disappointment and a sign of weakness. I should be able to survive without describing my pitiful existence to a stack of paper found in an alley. I guess the stairwell just feels smaller recently. I would never leave, but I am often tempted to take the step onto the crowded streets and just walk. I want to walk and find somewhere where I can be anything besides a shadow. Failure would be inevitable and I know this, but sometimes, I just stand with my foot on the curb. I lean forward just to fall back again. I don’t know why leaving my block seems like the biggest step possible. Those around me pass curious glances and try to ignore my behavior. If they think something is wrong with me, then I fully agree. The significance of one step should mean nothing to me. The stream of people pulls me around the corner and past the newsstand. I step toward the curb again but can’t make myself move any further. Turning away I stealthily snatch the bag of chestnuts resting on a pile of newspapers, moving unnoticed through the crowds. I retreat down my alley, taking care not to tread in the puddles caused by the recent storm. I don’t feel bad about stealing anymore. The hunger in my stomach outweighs the guilt I feel in my mind. I used to try to scavenge for food whenever possible. I believed in a higher power then, someone or something watching over me when nobody else would glance my way. Over years I slowly came to my senses. If someone was actually taking care of me, why would they make me so alone? Only a heartless and cold being would leave me in the cold to fend for myself. I hear men standing on their soapboxes preaching of a loving God and I scoff. What could they know? If there is a God, he is far from loving. I move aside the wood covering the crumbling bricks that mark the entrance to my stairwell. The dim light seeping through the caving ceiling two stories up reveals my nest of blankets piled in the corner of the stairwell. Stepping over to my crate of food, I place my newly found chestnuts in the box. I remove my shoes and wrap myself in warmth provided by my makeshift bed of blankets. Sleep is impossible when the sky is light, so I instead fall deep into my thoughts.
November 22, 1921
Ivy Ash. It sounds like enough of a name. Those who see me on the street refer to me as “girl”. This forced title isn’t who I am. I need something to call myself. Ivy Ash. I like the way the letters look, stuck together on the paper. It is hard to go about each day without an identity of any sort. Ivy Ash is a person. I am Ivy Ash. I am a person.
November 23, 1921
Every day brings the same monotonous routine that is sometimes hard to bear. I wake. I eat. I leave. I scavenge. I steal. I return. I eat. I sleep. Life is hardly worth the few moments of joy that barely penetrate constant pain. Today I found a rat attempting to take my last four chestnuts and I raised my foot, preparing to step on the creature. In no instance would this filthy animal rob me of the food I had worked hard to collect. As my foot began to fall, the beady eyes of the rat looked my way. It abandoned the hunger it had felt previously and ran faster than I thought possible. I am the rat. I run and scurry and try to take the hard earned food of others. I scavenge and hide from the disapproving eyes of humans. My beady eyes search for everything that I am not. Rats shouldn’t write pointless observations in beaten up notebooks. Rats should stay in the gutter where they belong. Rats don’t deserve names.
December 3, 1921


I have no past. That is, I have no past that anyone cares about or even slightly remembers. I can’t sleep because all I can think of is what my past could have been. The first scenario that appeared in my mind began with me as a baby, on a carriage ride with my wealthy parents. A bump on the road sent me flying from the loving arms of my family down onto the cold streets of Manhattan. An old man picked me up and carried me to his home, my stairwell. He raised me, taught me to read and write until one day, he didn’t return. The second possibility I considered was that I was the daughter of a family from the West. Specifically, my family lived in Kansas. An evil man must have stolen me from my calm farm life and taken me to New York where he made me his servant. I worked for him for many years until I gathered enough courage to escape. I ran for as long as I could and ended up spending the night in a stairwell. I made the stairwell into my home and have lived there since. Both of these ideas are impossible and influenced largely by romantic ideas of adventure. How I got where I am now should be the least of my problems. I need to focus on how to get away.
December 10, 1921
I was almost caught. Almost plucked off the streets like the litter I am. As I made my daily rounds of my block, I saw a woman carrying a large roasted chicken. My mouth watered at the thought of food. I knew this bird could keep me full for a week. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I followed the woman, being careful to stay unnoticed. As she stopped to admire a necklace, I passed by her and grabbed the bag containing my prize. She yelped in surprise. I dashed into the stream of people, grinning for the first time in weeks. My happiness quickly dissipated as I ran straight into a police officer. He grabbed my arm and asked how a wretched creature such as myself could obtain such an item. He squeezed tighter and said that if I didn't come up with a reasonable answer, he would take me to jail for the night. I wouldn’t speak. I couldn’t speak. An awful man such as he would never be able to make me utter even one word. Instinctively, I bit his arm. He let out a howl and momentarily let go of me. Sprinting again, I turned the corner and ran until my alley came into view. I collapsed into the stairwell holding the chicken against my heaving chest. Eating tastes like the danger of losing everything I know.
December 19, 1921
Everything has changed. I awoke to the sound of sniffling. As I sat up, the noise became louder and grew to a wail. I squinted and tried to find the source of the sound. I uncovered the hole to the alley and stuck my head into the night air. The noise stopped as a boy around ten years of age stared at me in surprise. He wiped tears from his eyes and shivered in the cold. He had shaggy brown hair and blue eyes and a face covered in freckles. I stared, not knowing what to do. He looked up at me and began to cry again. I moved closer to him and touched his arm in an attempt at comfort. The boy pushed me away with fear in his eyes and asked me what I wanted. I didn’t respond. He asked me what my name was, and he told me his was Tyler. I didn’t respond. He asked me if I had a warm place that he could spend the night. I beckoned towards my stairwell. He timidly approached and climbed inside. The boy spared no time in going over to my nest of blankets and falling fast asleep. I’m sitting in the cold watching him sleep. Where did he come from? Why is he here? I have so many questions. I should leave for the night and hope he is gone in the morning. I should pick him up and carry him out of the alley. I don’t do either. I just sit and watch the boy sleep.