If the Projects could talk, they would have told her eons ago; that the road she had been headed down would lead to her own self destruction.
They would have warned her, in light whispers that the friends she called her own would have betrayed her;...
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𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒅
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Sana pinched the tip of her burning nostrils, a feeling of immediate euphoria sinking her deeper into the tattered brown couch she occupied. Red strain lines decorated her yellow sclerae, a clear indication of exactly how sick the woman had become due to her yearlong addiction she had found no want to suppress.
Before her laid a single glass coffee table, littered with burnt cigarettes, a single rolled dollar bill, a now blunt razor and a final rope of white powder that hadn't yet been cut and indulged in.
"Mama?"
A delicate voice called, penetrating a resting Sana's eardrums and stimulating her nerves. Yet the woman remained still, hoping that the owner of the mere word would simply disappear, and utterly afraid that risking to do the sole task of opening her eyes would jeopardize the addictive feeling of her temporary high.
Anael drew nearer to her mother, watching her slow breathing become still. Her once voluminous curly hair matted atop her skull, appearing dry and brittle from the lack of maintenance over the many years ensuing her initial dabble in the 'devil's drug'.
