Three in the morning, a small girl lay asleep with a peaceful expression masking over the nightmare haunting her sleep. Her slender figure was outlined by the thin, ripped beige sheets that was supposed to bring what was called 'warmth'.
     Warmth. It was a dream in the poor town of Shakespeare. A town once named after the blessing of true literature. Class plays. The sound of music and laughter once filled these isolated streets. When the famine hit, marketing prices rose. Nobody could afford food, and the town went poor.
     A muscular man of fourty years stood standing over the shivering girl. Dark, sadistic thoughts filled his head, and danger hung thick in the air. Little did the girl know that she was in danger, she was only trying to get as much as the luxury called sleep as possible.
     On the nightstand that caused splinters to all the orphans in the house lay a glint of silver under the candlelight.
     A knife. Thin fingers reached out a snatched the glory off the nightstand. With a sudden jerk of the arm, the man who was once a hero to this young girl had driven the knife through chest.
     The girl coughed, but didn't wake up. This pain was no different from that of starvation. The sheets that shielded her frame from sight where pulled around her. Without removing the knife, the murderer wrapped the blanket around her and, without making a noise, disappeared. The girl's body in his arms began to heave in as much breath a possible.