Some people say one of the most tragic situations in life is when a parent outlives their child. I've never had the opportunity to be in such a predicament. Orphaned, left to die, unaided and battered, I had to fend for myself simply to stay alive. Though, one solemn day I learnt through loneliness that disease and poverty cause alienation from society.

The sickness began virtually undetected. I was aimlessly probing for scraps of food in a vain attempt to keep some of my dignity; praying I didn't have to beg for money or food. I hated begging; the way the people would stare at me with their neon eyes, avoiding me like the Black Plague made me feel inferior, almost invisible. Mothers would clutch onto their children's tiny hands and lead them away from me, the 'disease of society'. I was so preoccupied with riffling through garbage, that I overlooked the coughs that ripped their way from my raw throat. The pain from the coughs resembled chewing on delicate shards of razor sharp glass.

My sleep that night was beleaguered with an all-consuming agony that tore me from my dreams. My temples pounded, as if an intense weight was pressed upon them and the thin blue rivers that were my veins throbbed endlessly. I was so emaciated I resembled a skeleton with skin yanked securely around it. Absolutely nobody the next morning paid any attention to the deprived child, shivering and convulsing by the seedy alley. I was truly alone.

Another day droned on as I rose my entirely too frail hand to wipe away the steady stream of maroon dripping from my lips. Days ago I had begun coughing up mouthfuls of bitter blood. A stabbing pain was vibrating through my svelte frame, circulating through me like air. Inhaling became a burden that caused me great misery.

Even I, an uneducated beggar, knew what was happening to me. My body was breaking down, eating itself in a pathetic attempt to stay alive. I felt as if I were growing in a glass jar: easily broken and oh so very fragile. Just one-minute movement and I would shatter into a million pieces. People began stepping over me at this point. My face was alabaster; my once vibrant eyes were dull and devoid of any emotion. Why were these people being so cruel? Couldn't they see I needed help? Lying there alone I began crying.

It was an unbearably sun-drenched day when a young man knelt down near my insipid body, touching my forehead soothingly. He muttered something that I couldn't hear to another man as they lifted me from the confinements of my rubble bed. I was so numb; I barely felt their strong hands on my body as they lowered me into a black plastic bag, zipping it up somberly.

From that point on, I became a screaming face in a plastic womb that absolutely no one heard from again. I became Jane Doe, number 469, dead from a fatal and terminal case of tuberculosis.

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