Death Sticks
Amanda Lara
To this day I hate cigarettes. She always chose them over me. How can a dead plant infused with chemicals be more important than the life she gave? Every last dollar she had wasted on that death stick with that smell of a deceased soul. The day will come when that smell will come to life and grab her to be a part of death itself. Finally, the karma she deserves. Horrible of me to think in such a way, I know, but, honestly, when you make a nonliving thing more important than a living human being, what kind of a person are you? I remember the day we had no food in the fridge, empty as her soul.
“Can we get something to eat?” I asked fearing the answer no.
Sure enough, “No. We have no money.”
How can five words hurt so much? I went to my room and sat on the bed wanting to cry from the hurt that I felt. I remembered all the other times she hurt me at that moment. I wiped the tear that was falling down my cheek, got up, and went to the kitchen. I kept going back and forth to open the fridge hoping I'd see something there that I hadn't seen the last time when in she came with a foul, soulless box of sticks in her hand.
“I thought you said you didn't have any money."
“I don't. I just had enough for my cigarettes and soda."
That hurt more than my growling stomach. I went back to my room and sat there on the bed in disbelief. I hate cigarettes because they win her over every time. I did the only thing a twelve year old child could do.
“It’s in good condition. I've only had it for three months and never learned how to play it."
“Thank you. My nephew is going to be excited. He’s always wanted a guitar," the lady said as she walked off my porch.
As I sold my possessions and counted the money, I watched her light her death every hour and the box become empty and waited for her to scramble up some more change just to go buy another box of chemicals, just to break my heart all over again.