Working class hero.

Bright colours and the monochrome surfaces surrounded the area before me. Smiling faces and attempted small talk was what they did, just doing their job as politely as possible. A figure emerged from the back and turned towards us. Her hair pulled tightly to the back of her head showing her greying roots and worry lines. Her eyes told a story no words ever could. The black circles surrounding her lids echoed the pain of suffering and doing all she could to provide for her family. The empty gaze she held with the faked smile appeared practiced but her problems still showed. Her kids, her missing husband and her dead parents: all on her mind while she serves me. The scars on her arms and the bruise on her face tell a story no teenage girl can face on a monday lunchtime, or any time for that matter. Her story so painful and so undercover that she slips away unnoticed in her break to relieve the next door neighbour for a while. Her kids are yelling for her, waiting for her to return with what they hoped would be a full meal today, maybe to make up for the lack they had yesterday. This woman is working 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and for the rest of her life - providing for her children and doing all she can to make sure they eat even if she doesn't. Her husband went missing on their arrival to the capital, caught up in drugs as he had been for years and she could do none to help him. Alone and perfectly aware of what she faces. She suffers the disapproving glances for her job in a fast food restaurant and the dirty trainers that have lasted her since she was 17. The looks tell her she's a bad person, that she's just a poor woman and assume she's a drug addict. She rises above, waking up every morning to be a mother to her children and the wife to her husband who she no longer sees. She's making herself proud and working to make sure her kids can live better than this.
She's nothing but a working class hero.