It's pouring rain out here. I'm tucked underneath a balcony outside my apartment, leaning against the wall and watching water run down the street.
I take a drag and exhale slowly, allowing the smoke to drift away and by absorbed by the rain. This is my last cigarette—well, yesterday's was supposed to be my last. In my defense, I've had a crummy day.
So I find myself in my usual spot, late at night, savoring every drag as I listen to the drizzle. I'll miss this. It's good thinking, standing here.
My head leans back and I lower my hand, releasing a sigh and all the other tension and worry that sits on my chest. My mask drops. The treatment didn't work on her. She's still sick—and getting worse.
I take another drag. So, we need more money.
Guilt wraps its cold fingers around me. It's been ten months, and every penny I've brought in has gone into saving her. There's been little progress. But I won't give up—I can't.
She never deserved this. And God—she's only eleven.
I'll never forget the day I vowed to help her.
When I heard the news, I was so mad I blacked out. Or maybe the doctors put me under. Either way; I was livid.
When I woke up in the hospital, I coughed into my shoulder so the nurses wouldn't hear me. I slid my IV out like any maniac does when they don't want to be in the hospital and stumbled out the door. I had to see her. I had to at least apologize.
To this day, I have no idea how I found her room without getting caught dragging myself down the hallway. But I did, and I can still see her face, so small and pale in that big hospital bed.
She was awake, and the way she looked at me ripped me in two, right down the middle. There wasn't a trace of anger in her expression. She smiled when I walked in.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly, and I literally choked out of shock.
"Genie," I started breathlessly, but she shook her head at me.
"I'm not angry," she said.
"I—"
"Shut up," she ordered. "I'm not angry, and you're sick too, and my mom says everyone makes mistakes so don't apologize."
She held her hand out and grinned at me when I took it, my hand enveloping hers. "I thought men weren't supposed to cry," she teased.
She was wrong, because even standing here, smoking my last cigarette and thinking about that day, my eyes well up.
YOU ARE READING
Rapscallion
Teen FictionMost people don't rob banks. Most people also don't have superpowers. If someone was, by some chance, both of those things, then most people certainly wouldn't use the money to fund an eleven-year-olds recovery from the lethal Virus. Supervillain B...
