The Last Cigarette_Resettlement Notes_The Man in the Mirror_Two Skeletons in a Snow Globe
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The Last Cigarette
“Got any cigarettes left?” Zoe rounds the corner, her fire red curls whipping behind her as she falls to the concrete floor beside me. Before I can answer, her black nails are wrapped around the cigarette in my mouth, and pulling it to her own.After a deep drag and an exhale of relief, she’s returningwww.onedoor.cc the cigarette to its former position. I suck in before asking a question I don’t want the answer to, “Are they freaking out in there?”She laughs, “Of course.”“I just couldn’t think of anything real to say,” I hesitate, waiting for the right words to form on my lips. “And I couldn’t read that garb...
Resettlement Notes
This story contains themes of mental health and reference to sexual abuse.”Don’t forget your pills.”Alan slurps his tea to cool it. Some dribbles down his chin, adding to the damp patch on his chest. His mouth contorts with involuntary lip-smacking and grimacing caused by years of heavy medication.“Your pills,” repeats Agnes, nodding to the small paper cup on the table. She stands next to him, arms crossed over her stout body as she waits, sternly overseeing this regular ritual. Her eyes swim like fishes in the lenses of her glasses, cold and wet. Alan’s face twists again, this time with displ...
The Man in the Mirror
The Man in the MirrorHe saw not himself in the mirror’s reflection but the man he was afraid he’d become. From the corner of the glass pane, he could see her stirring from her sleep, grasping at the empty space in the bed. A few years earlier he would still be laying down, holding her in his arms. The vicious cycle of womanizing had built up scar tissue over his compassion and left a cold spirit in its wake. What he lacked in empathy he made up for in dry wit. A fair trade he told himself, or perhaps he had slowly become an arrogant prick. He was not always this way, however. To the chagrin of...
Two Skeletons in a Snow Globe
The haunting melody begins at dusk each day, like clockwork. It is Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14, of that I am sure. I step aside from my usual perch behind the weathered gravestone and roll out my stiff shoulders. Tired from standing all day long, I kneel down and rest against the head of the gravestone. With slow swipes, I smooth out the ruffles in my pink skirt and finally begin to relax. Next to me is a small, orange jack o’lantern, grinning. Gently, I lift it from the ground and cradle the pumpkin in my arms. It’s something to hold onto in here. It won’t be long now. He always comes wan...