BURN (Wattys2015?)

gremlin

step out to light a cigarette. the cheap kind, they taste like crap. but a craving isn't something you ignore because it tastes a little bad.
you take a few puffs, letting the chemicals slide in and the demons slide out.
"who are you?"
a little voice says.
you jump, startled, and drop your cigarette. let out a string of curses, because that was the last one. but you check the pack just in case one is hiding.
you look to the voice, remembering hearing a little gremlin. you eye the kid, its a little girl with mismatched shoes, rumpled clothes, and ratty hair.
"well, who are you?"
you ask, because you don't know how to answer her question. who are you, really? you can't answer it.
"I live here."
she says, smug, like she knows she can't be beat. you shrug, uncaring.
"i live here too."
you say, picking your cigarette off the dirty ground.
wipeoncewipetwice
on those faded blue jeans
clean enough
you put the cigarette back to your lips, and stare off at the mountains. beautiful view, it is.
the little beast waves her hand through the fresh cloud of smoke, coughing.
"you're going to give me cancer."
she wheezes. you remain silent, and blow out another puff of smoke, but straight up this time. it rises into the air like an Indian smoke signal. you laugh at how stupid that is.
the girl stares at you, unblinking and undeterred. you stare back, sucking on your death wish.
her tiny blue eyes glare up at you, and the defiance in them almost makes you back down. you don't, though. you stare back, disinterested and numb.
"are you sleeping with my mom?"
she asks, blunt. normally, you might marvel at the fact she would ask such a question.
you debate whether you should be honest, or lie. neither would benefit or hurt you. you're concerned for the girl, who you have almost an attachment to already. rebellion grows on you.
"yes"
you answer, your stare not waivering. she seems satisfied that you didn't look away, like most men would. you have no shame, and she seems to like you.
"you look young. are you in high school?"
"no"
"I'm seven"
"okay"
"my mom doesn't love you"
"I don't love your mom"
"everyone loves my mom"
"not me"
"what's your name?"
"does it matter?"
this frustrates the little one, but she changes the subject, rapidly firing off information.
"I don't sleep here. my grandma brings me during the day, so my mom can watch me while he works. that's why I haven't seen you before. but you're here now."
you had already guessed this. but you're suprised the woman never mentioned a daughter. then again, the woman had stated she didn't want to get to know you. she didn't want your last name, or where you're from. she didn't offer her last name either. 'just call me Lana' she had said. she didn't want to know your age because, 'you're young enough to be my son, probably.' but you knew her age, because you saw it on her license. she's thirty five, not nearly old enough to be your mother.
"I guess I'm just early."
you're glad the child isn't there at night. she shouldn't see the bad things. the drinking, the smoking, the snorting, the screaming, the love making.
she sits down on the cracked concrete, her bony butt landing hard. if she felt any pain, she definitely didn't show it. she picks at the grass growing in the concrete cracks, tearing away at the irony of broken things and new life.
"my dad died in the war"
she whispers this, but you feel no pity for her. everyone has dead people.
"okay"
your cigarette is nearly over, but you'll keep smoking it until you can't hold it between your fingers. and then you'll have to smoke another. chain smoking is your new hobby. you picked it up when you let Her go. and the funny thing is She would have hated it.
"you aren't going to tell me you're sorry?"
"no"
"you're mean"
"and you're annoying"
you drop your finished cig on the concrete and crush it with your sneaker.
you stare off into the horizon, and she stares too.
she seems to like you. she wants to be your friend.
silence.

this is different than normal, it's me trying prose.