• I inhaled deeply, smoke filling my lungs, and held on for as long as I could, hoping that somehow it would suffocate me. My body ached for oxygen, and finally I let out my cloud of smoke. It blew into the air and surrounded me like a weird halo. It was like a cry of relief when I breathed in again, my body celebrated the wave of crisp, clean air. It was easy killing myself this way, slow and painless. Smoking was the most discreet form of suicide I knew. I could sit on a park bench and chain smoke a dozen packets and no one would care.
    For example, If I slit my wrists or hung myself, then people would care. If I sat in the park drinking litres of vodka and snorting crank, then people would care. They’d put me in rehab, call he hospitals, lecture me on how dangerous my behaviour was and I should be ashamed. But now, I was more discreet then that. Another puff, and I dropped the little bud to the ground, crushing it with my heal. How many would it take until my lungs rotted. Did I even care?
    The walk home was long. It was cold out, I had forgotten my coat again, and again I didn’t really care. I ignored the cold, ignored the strangers who eyed the Goosebumps on my arms and rolled their eyes, ignored the sleazebags who leered at my legs and wolf whistled. Yes, it as the dead of winter and I was wearing a skirt. A short skirt at that. So what? All my other clothes had been re-worn so many times without a wash they were beginning to smell like a public bathroom. The skirt looked good on me, and maybe I wanted to look good, have guys stare at my legs and my a**. Girls too sometimes. What was the difference really.
    Sorry miss, but aren’t you cold?
    I heard a voice behind me. Didn’t bother to look, didn’t bother to reply. Just kept walking.
    No, I wasn’t cold. Just in a hurry.
    ******** going home, I had better places to go.

    I was welcome here, as always. My short skirt and thin blouse was welcome, my zero care factor was very welcome. My associate Danny was there, of course, sitting at the usual table with Hannah and Chris, and a man I didn’t recognise.
    Babe! Looking hot, drink?
    Duh.
    We sat, we talked bullshit and drank, drank, drank. I felt myself sliding to the wrong side of sober and welcomed it gladly.
    Another drink? Certainly. Would I like to dance, yes I would. Someone’s hand on my thigh, what’s new? My names matt. Nice to meet you Matt. Enjoying looking at my breasts, want a closer look? Oh course I’m 18. Close enough anyway, but that’s an irrelevant detail. Your place or mine? Yours. My housemates will be around.
    A car. A porch. A light. More drinks. Lips and hands under my blouse. Just move with it babe, just move with it. Pressure and pain and heat, heat, heat. The night rages on and morning doesn’t seem to want to push it to the side. Headaches and sticky stuff on my skirt.
    I let myself out.
    Walk home.
    Where have you been?
    Out.
    Where?
    None of your ******** business.
    Don’t talk to me like that young lady.
    Like what mother? Afraid of your little girl growing up?
    Stairs, bathroom. Hot bath. Sliding underwater, feeling the days and nights wash off my body. Long wet hair, smooth clean skin. Towels, dry, bed, warm. Another day begins.
    Bench. Smoke. Bar. Drink. Dance. Light. Pressure. Pain. Home. Fall.
    Smoke. Drink. Pain. Home.
    Drugs. Pain. Where is home?
    Pain. Home?
    Pain, pain, pain.
    Nothing.
    Home?
    Gone.