Dead Roses
Kiley Money

I sit and stare blankly at the wall. A cigarette burns in my hand as the smoke filters in and out of my lungs. A small thought comes quickly to my mind and leaves just the same.

“These will kill you know.”
“Yes, I know. Do I give a fuck? Not now,” I say to myself.

I am surrounded by nothing. There is no music playing in the background. There is no art being laid on a page. There are no pots and pans clinking in the kitchen. There are no headlights passing through the streets of the Aves. Just myself and this one lonely stick of tobacco fiercely receding into my body.

My silence is interrupted by a soft dinging noise. God how I wish it was the doorbell, but my hopes are silenced just like this empty room. I know what it is, and for a brief second I try to convince myself I’m only dreaming. I tell myself, “It’s not real, you are going to wake up soon.” But even I cannot say I am that good of a liar. To be quite honest, I have never been more awake. The sound goes off again and it pings through my ears like a fucking jet engine.

 “Stop being a coward.” My mind spits into my ears.

I am offended by myself but too devastated to even care that my subconscious mind is bullying me. I stare further into the water stain on the god-awful tan paint in front of me and slowly shove my burning filter of a cigarette into the side of the recliner. Still no sounds, but now the smell of cheap stuffing melting underneath my fingertips.

 “Say it,” my mind says. At this point it’s relentless.

“Fucking say it.”

 I stand, without speaking a word. I stare at the now black rimmed waxy hole in the middle of this lazy boy chair we found on the street one day. Smoke smolders up from around the orange butt lodged into the fabric and my eyes begin to well. My naked body glides across the ancient wood panels in my 3rd floor apartment. I catch my own image in the floor length mirror and for a second I swear I could have seen the grim reapers hand on my shoulder. Why, with me playing with death so much in the last 10 minutes you would think his scythe would be wrapped around my throat. The sound pings again and this time the room lights up from the blue light glowing from his phone.

 “Fucking say it.” Again there she is, right on time.

 I cross the living room knocking over the dead red roses on the dining room table. The already cracked thrifted vase falls lightly with a thud and sickening water spreads across the wood. I tremble towards the blue light now filling the room, tears leaving a trail on the floor behind me.

 “Fucking say it.” Again, she screams.

 I look down at the phone lying still on the counter and I want so badly to be shocked by the notification pinging on his phone. I want to tell myself, “He would never do something like this to you.” But I know better.

 I wonder if she’s beautiful. I wonder if she is more beautiful than me. I imagine her with thick black hair falling straight and sleek to the small of her back. I imagine she smells intoxicating. I imagine she gives him everything I cannot give him. I wonder if she knows that I absolutely hate her. I wonder if she is thinking about me. I wonder if she is imagining me sitting naked and cold in my apartment shoving cigarettes into the recliner he and I found on the side of the road together. I look in the mirror a final time. I wonder if she thinks I am beautiful.