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She needs no one, and no one needs her.
(Once, she had been needed. One was silent and one screamed and one told her to run, and they all needed her, for one explosive instant. There had been three, and then there was no one.)
When it's dark, she pricks her fingers on the tips of crossbow bolts and whispers to herself. She hears the blood drip among the whispering and doesn't feel a thing. The words rasp against the tin around her.
(One wore black, one walked strange, one tripped, one had eyes like water, one was sick, one liked dancing in water and calling herself a wolf. She killed them all. They were no one.)
The dumpster is empty save for her, but the smell of it burns at her nostrils. Her elbows scratch at the sides when she moves. The sick never find her at night. The whispers do. Eventually they turn monosyllabic.
(They take on their own tune, and she sings herself to sleep each night. No one sings with her.)
Some days she doesn't leave the whispering and the tin, she lies with them in the darkness. Once she heard a scream that broke through the song and tore through her bones.
(It was no one.)