𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬

one. | before/fourteen.

before
fourteen

Faint, but never-ending cloud cover hangs over the sky as I sit on the side steps of my childhood home. It's rowdy inside, my older sister throwing one of her many parties. Mom has a night shift and would be too tired when she stumbles home in the morning hours to notice the mess Willow would make disappear before she woke the following afternoon. The two-story walk-up we call home has never been much, even before Dad skipped town and moved to Detroit with everything but his family. There are more straggly looking weeds than grass and the siding has needed a new coat of paint for the last fifteen years. Fortunately, that's how every house the block appears, so we aren't exactly an eyesore.

Beaters line the street, some live here and others are my sister's friends. Willow is turning twenty next month, but when she's not working at the Dark Room on Scotch, she's drinking her weight in bottom shelf tequila. She says she's just a server, but I know better. Willow is stock piling cash in a shoe box in the back of her closet. I don't dare take any of it because it's not worth the fight. In any case, I know exactly why she's doing it.

She's going to run.

Take her valuables and slip out in the middle of the night.

Just like he did.

Willow was always the most like Dad.

Makes sense she's just as shifty.

I don't even blame her.

I would leave too if I was her age and had a little sister to look after Mom.

That's what I do most days, make sure she doesn't burn the whole place down with a drowsy lit bud. Sometimes I even steal one for myself.

Not because I'm addicted.

I just like the idea of it.

Having a bad habit.

Everyone else has one.

I toy with the cancer stick between my index and middle fingers. I painted my nails just an hour ago, a blue almost as dark as the sky with silver shimmer. I tried my best to tune out the party, but like all things the walls have also worn thin. So, I slipped into Dad's old study, which is always off limits, but I hide out there a lot. Plus, it's the access to the side door that no one bothers. The one that mirrors at the neighbors across the shared driveway. The two concrete slabs separate by a sliver of dirt and a couple dandelions. Though unlike the neighbor we don't have a detached garage in the back.

Mr. DeRosa is nice enough. He's old and keeps to himself. He's lived alone for as long as I can remember. Mom says he was probably eighty when they moved in, lord only knows how he's still kicking.

I glance at the lighter on the step beside me.

My very own.

It's neon green with a pink cowgirl boot sticker on it.

Grasping it in my other hand, I shield the slight breeze and purse the cigarette between my lips. The flicker of the lighter is a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. A little rush of adrenaline. The rush of something I shouldn't be doing.

I inhale, wanting to gag but I don't.

I just breathe through it.

I should have heard him, if it weren't for the music inside and my own fixation with my small defiance.

But I didn't until he spoke.

"A little young for such a filthy habit, aren't you?"

His voice a little gravely as he stepped under the thinly veiled moonlight. He must have just walked up Mr. DeRosa's drive. It's summer so I'm not surprised to see the worn jeans and black converse on his feet, or the tee that has the sleeves cut off. His hands are shoved into his front pockets, his arms golden from the summer heat and toned in the same way you see the construction workers on the highway. He's young, but older than me. Maybe even older than Willow. His hair is shaggy and pin-straight at the same time. A sandy mid-tone brown in color, clipped close at his ears but nearly brushing his eyes in the front. His eyes are a pale, pale blue. Almost too light to be humanly possible, but maybe it's just the darkness making them appear so bright.