I saw the girl who was always hungry.
 I was young then, and so was she - far too young to be so starved, though I assure you, it was not due to a lack of nourishment.
 I saw the girl who was always hungry whenever she ate alongside all of the other children in the orphanage. Every mealtime of every day, I watched as she took one emotionless bite after another. The food was never terrible, but she never seemed to enjoy it. I always felt that she did not truly want to eat. There was a sense of obligation to each and every clink of her spoon against the plate, like she was doing it for the survival of someone that she did not particularly care for. Like she simply did not care about anything at all. No matter how much she ate, I could still hear her stomach growling.
 I saw the girl who was always hungry every night when it was time to go to sleep in the bedroom several of us shared, with our beds lined up against the walls. Her bed was right next to the tall windows overlooking the cobblestone street and the just pub on the other side of it. You could always hear the muffled sound of men laughing and brawling down below. She never slept when anyone else was still awake; at least, that is what everybody thought. Instead, she would lie awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling at the chipping paint, or she would lie on her sides. To her right was the window, where she would gaze upon the leafless tree that would tap against the glass panes on windy evenings. To her left, the other children, sleeping in their little beds. She would watch them for a while. Anyone who was awake to see it would be sleepless for the rest of the night, unable to stop staring back at her. Her eyes would glint in glint in the darkness. They were the only visible thing amidst her shadowy silhouette formed by the faint light from a nearby streetlamp that was streaming in through the window at her back. It was often hard to sleep because the sound of her stomach rumbling always sounded louder in the stillness of the night.
 I saw the girl who was always hungry behind the orphanage one day, in the alleyway where the trash bins and grocery crates were kept. She was not supposed to be there. None of us were allowed to be there, and yet, that was where I found her. She was crouched over something near one of the bins. There was a soft squeaking sound, and she was whispering. Her words were indecipherable, but her tone was vaguely conversational and almost familiar.
 She was perched on her haunches with her head lowered. When she lifted it, the dark red and almost black stains on her face became clear, and there was a dead rat in her hands. Rats were scurrying all around her muddy shoes, squeaking and whisking and leaving tiny red paw prints on the ground. Beneath her feet was a puddle of the same blood that had stained her face and fingers.
 And despite her mouth being full of flesh, her stomach continued to growl.
 I did not wait for her to offer an explanation, nor did she seemed particularly interested in providing one, as she ignored the sight of me and continued to eat her makeshift meal. I never told anyone about what I saw the hungry girl do that day, though I really wish I had.