"time...to die"

dispight the tietle, this post is nigh ther ;bout blaid runna nor sewyside. 

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She remembers this dawn. It remained unchanged from 10 years ago. She still can't see the sun past the towering, jagged 'trees' of cement. Warm daylight still scattered by the hazy grey of pollution, sent from a sky of the exact same shade. No breeze dare stir the man-made soup of smoke, dust and grime, save for the displaced air from an unknown figure rushing by to an unknown destination. 

She remembers the tinny dings of bicycle bells, the hoarse calls of street vendors advertising their wares, the sound of dough and eggs sizzling merrily in grease- noises coalescing like messy stitches that form the tapestry of life. 

She finds herself following her nose, the trail of fried spring onions and eggs leading her to a unimpressive metal stall. A time-weathered brown face peeked out from behind a curtain of people, brows furrowed in concentration. He was selling breakfast, she acknowledged briefly, before fumbling in her woolen pockets for coins. Fingers finding nothing but lint and candy wrappers, she cursed loudly. 

Her voice only travelled for a second before getting swallowed by the noises around her. 

 

The smell was deliciously overpowering, thickening the smoky air. Her nostrils feel saturated with it, as her mouth became saturated with saliva. A throbbing pulsed in her skull, pounding with the rhythm of the vendor's hypnotic movement. 

She does not want to walk away. She can not walk away.

The wizened old vendor lifted his head and peered up at her, his face pockmarked with flecks of green. Her body must have unconsciously moved towards the stall, the analytical voice in her mind remarked detachedly. It was drowned out by the smell, the wonderful aroma that she cannot get enough of. Inhaling deeply, she let the wholesome aroma fill her lungs to the brim, spilling out into her entire being. She hungers. 

Nothing seems to exist around her now, the background noises muffled, as if coming from a great distance. She is a void, her entire consciousness bent towards one thing, the one thing she wants more than anything in this godforsaken world. The old man's face is golden brown dough, embedded with fresh spring onions and lightly toasted mushrooms. He seemed to sway and beckon across the counter. 

With a resounding crash, she knocks the flimsy counter to the ground. The stall collapses like a tower of cards. Her hands move up slowly, tearing off a piece of fragrant, golden flesh. Red- brown liquid oozed out like thick tomato sauce. She found it a perfect complement to golden dough as she rolled it around in her mouth, savoring the taste. It melted in her mouth like heavenly ambrosia and she reached for another piece. 

"Two dollar for one pancake, three dollar for two," a heavily accented asian voice cut through her senses like a rusty knife through butter. 

"What?" she croaked

"You cannot pay? Not expensive!" the old vendor complained

Panicking, she rummaged trough her pockets again, but coming up empty. 

"I'm sorry, is there anyway I can repay-" 

Bloodcurdling screams rose up around her, bouncing and echoing inside her already throbbing head. She looked up, horrified. 

The texture of his face had morphed from spongy omelette texture to leathering, wizened skin. What remained of his face was in shreds, blood running down from the torn flesh onto the charred torso below. A bloodshot eye hung loosely from a ruined socket, grey matter oozing sluggishly. 

Bits of burnt omelette littered the filthy sidewalk around her as sirens wailed in the distance. 

If someone can tell me what's lacking in this, I'll be forever grateful.