The Lighter
She watches the blue at the root of the flame.
She watches the blue at the root of the flame.
The room is cold. A hospital cold that lives in the walls.
Three flowers, a knife, and the burden of knowing what mercy costs.
The Cedarwood Home for the Elderly stood at the end of a dead-end street in a rotting borough of a dying town.
Something green.
“Why are you late?”
She whispered it aloud. Her voice. Lower, gruffer.
Forever now. Somehow that made it matter less.
Mirror. Signal. Breathe.
Between panes of glass, choice slips away.
Vanilla musk. She never changes.
It started as a joke, really. Betsy dared me.