The Life of Delly

I remember standing there on the bare wood floor of our dingy little apartment, watching as she stood on tiptoe on an old metal folding chair tying the rope to our ceiling fan. A head-sized loop hung at the end of it, frayed threads sticking out here and there like pricklies on a cactus.
"Here honey, hold this for mommy," she said, handing me a half smoked roach she'd been puffing on as she worked.
"Wait, wait, wait, give it back a minute."
I handed it back and she took a long drag, closing her eyes and holding it in for a moment. She coughed once and let it back out in a slow stream, her whole body relaxing as she did.
"Bad shit, honey," she said a moment later, shaking her head and stretching her eyelids. "Don't you never start it, okay?"
I nodded as she handed it back to me.
She brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes and rubbed her hands together like someone trying to get warm.
"Okay, stand back, honey. I don't wanna kick you or nuthin."

And so begins the life of Delly.