I placed my suitcase on the empty plastic chair beside me—I paid for it just so nobody would seat. I tried to remember what I might have forgotten in his house—so far, none. I brought my rage with me.
I pulled out a stick and lit its end. I took all the white fogs and let them heal my bruised lungs. Soon, my breaths would become nicotine and I would not trade it for anything.
There was no one inside the bus. We had to stop by the food station because this brat child wanted to have burgers and candy. Of course, the driver listened because, at the end of the day, he would take the mother to his bed.
The ‘No Smoking’ sign pirouetted against the hymns of the air. I blew my cigarette smokes towards the card. The Brat Child ascended in the bus with her sick-looking mother. “What’s that smell?”
I could have punched her.
When he took me to the clinic this morning, I questioned my existence.
I clutched my stomach as the Brat Child snuggled to her mother. My daughter would have told me to stop smoking; she would have slept beneath my embrace.
Check out this week’s prompt:
Sunday Photo Fiction
WORD COUNT: 201
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.