The hard surface of the concrete is digging into the back of my thighs, and the cold is eating into my flesh despite the tatty old blanket I am sitting on. Through the dirty strands of my unkempt fringe I see myriads of shiny people hurrying past, smart phone glued to their ears, leather briefcase in one hand.

There was a time where I tried to catch their eye, tried to make them see me. That was straight after it had all fallen apart. After Jenny. I swallow hard at the thought. How she fought the disease running through her veins like a warrior, how the doctors battled the cancer cells in her blood stream like a battalion of soldiers, how my parents watched her weakened body like the Guardians of the Galaxy. All to no avail. I wipe away a tear stubbornly. What does it matter now? Jenny has gone from this world, my father has gone from my life, and my mother has gone from our reality. All the fight has left me!

A beautiful lady in a glittery dress, clutching an expensive looking handbag, quickens her step as she walks past, shuddering visibly when her gaze falls onto my ragged body.

I close my eyes, desperately trying to block out the memories. It wasn't the blood, to be honest. The eyes. They were the worst and the thing I noticed first when I opened the bathroom door to check on her. The paramedics whisked my mother away to hospital and then to a psychiatric facility, while social services passed me around from foster home to foster home like an unwanted Christmas gift.

Three years ago! It feels so much longer. Try as I might, I cannot for the life of me connect with the carefree teenager I used to be. I used to paint my fingernails all sorts of different colours, trying to attract the boys, I suppose. Looking down at my hands now, with the nails bitten to the quick and what is left mostly tinged yellow, I feel a million miles removed from my old self.

A metallic noise makes me look up. An older gentleman has dropped a coin in my misshapen, greyish, disposable coffee cup, my one possession that I can actually relate to, without even so much as looking in my direction.

The last time I painted my nails was just a few days before I finally ran away for good, leaving the broken child rescue system behind. Shouting something about sins and seductresses, my foster father at the time gave me a good walloping, then locked me into a small closet after he had noticed the bright red on my nails. My bottom bright blue and my fingernails still bright red, I fled the monster's lair the minute he turned the key in the lock.

Sixteen! Sixteen, without money, without guidance, without love. What was I supposed to do?

A mother with two small children drops another coin into my beaker, then ushers her children away from me. Soon I'll have enough money for another bottle of Vodka. Not too soon either.

Three years on the streets. The bottle my lover, the veteran homeless my councillors, the passers-by my financial support.

"Mummy, shouldn't we give the poor girl some money?" A little pre-schooler is pointing at me.

"We don't point at people, Peter!" Mummy hisses. "It's not polite."

With that, she drags Peter away.

More shoppers and businesspeople pass, some nearly tripping over me, a few leaving a coin or two before hastily retreating from my blanket.

Don't get me wrong, I don't blame them. I would have probably done the same if the roles had been reversed. Handing over my small change would have bought me a clean conscience, too.

Another metallic clink. A man is dropping the change he got back at the bakery into my cup. Before he carries on walking, he actually gives me a stern look. "Don't buy drugs or alcohol with my money!"

"Thank you, sir!" I simply reply. Inwardly I grin. 'No, man, wouldn't dream of it; I'm saving up for some cutlery and a decent hoover!' I answer him in my head. Still, I know he meant well.

Suddenly my eyes are drawn to a teenaged girl with long blond hair, wearing a Mickey Mouse hoodie. My heart stops for a nanosecond before I remember that Jenny is dead. The resemblance, though. Through my fringe I peek at her.

"Why do you want to support these good-for-nothing scroungers? Sitting there all day, not a care in the world, living off our money? She would just sell the stupid thing and buy drugs instead. Stop being so naïve!" I assume this philanthropist is her friend and that they're talking about my productive self and my contribution to society as a whole.

"Leave me alone!" the Jenny-lookalike responds and starts towards me, shaking off Mr Philanthropist's hands.

"Can I sit on your blanket?" she asks quietly.

"It's dirty and full of germs!" My voice is as gruff and uninviting as I can make it.

"That's a yes then, I assume." She plonks her bum next to me, holding out her hand. "My name is Jessy," she says. Suddenly my breath freezes in my lungs. It's not only the name; I can't remember the last time somebody wanted to shake my hand. Reluctantly, because I'm ashamed of the state of my fingers, I grab her polished hands.

"I know this is not much," she carries on speaking, not even flinching when my yellow, broken nails touch her smooth skin. "But I wanted to give you this anyway. I know you sit here every day. You look so sad and so defeated, and nobody seems to feel responsible. So I got you an MP3 player and put some music on it that gets me through tough times. Especially the first song. Maybe we could go for a coffee together tomorrow, talk about the music. If you like. Just think about it." Before I can react, Jessy has disappeared, leaving the music gadget behind.

Gingerly, I pick it up and press play.

Like a small boat

On the ocean

Sending big Waves

Into motion ...

The music fills my ears, while tears fill my eyes.

* * * * *

Three months later, I'm standing at the shelter, my clothes old but clean, my hair cut, about ten teenaged run-aways looking up at me expectantly.

"I know what you feel like, unheard, invisible, disposable, defeated. But it is the adults who put us here who should feel defeated and insignificant, our so-called carers who never cared about us. We are not defeated! We will not remain mute! We will not let people cast us aside anymore without asking what or who led us here! Today, your stories will finally be heard."

I gesture to the TV crew behind me. The light comes on, the cameras start rolling and the background music starts:

And all those things I didn't say

Wrecking balls inside my brain

I will scream them out tonight

Can you hear my voice this time?

To the right of me, Jessy starts clapping quietly.