dead inside.
Summer came and went, and so did fall, and so did winter. It was getting from bad to worse, like a domino effect. The clouds never left anymore, and she felt alone. She was alone. She wasn't afraid of the world, because she thought that nobody cared, and she was probably right. Her breath smelled of smoke, her thumb was stained black from a constant use of lighters, her dirty blonde hair fell in messy waves, and her brown eyes were cold. She had always dreamed of running away.
She thought of her life as a game of cards. She bet money, and she lost some of it. She risked everything at each play, and if she lost it, it didn't matter. She could always play again. It was only a game, after all. A stupid game. A useless game. A game that would end, either way. A game called life.
She never spent a day without music. Every day, with both headphones in and constant Bob Marley, she'd toke, hit and cough. Eat, and spark up again. She didn't do work. Instead, she blazed. Sometimes she'd light a cigarette in her room - a pack of Marboros and a lighter were always next to her bedside, but she didn't like cigarettes that much. She never cried. She just gave up on everything, and nothing mattered anymore.
She liked being high best. All of her problems went away. "Gravity is overrated" she always said. Or "Get high to forget, but never forget to get high." Weed was her drug, her medicine, her peace. Shrooms were her escape. Cigarettes were her boredom. And heroin was her killer.
She had a daughter.
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