Since the numbers on the white card rolled to death, I could only live with the decision I had chosen through the use of my breasts. I could remember the red tears from my mother’s eyes and the thin cuts, but loud echoes of disapproval from my father’s mouth when I split my skin apart before their eyes.
Three weeks later, their good girl turned into some classic goth who only kissed the rules of heroin. My man sucked the fragility out of my virgin system to create a manifestation of a troubled teen. I could not listen to anyone’s words, but his; I could only pray I would die with him.
Somebody told me I was a naive traveler—perhaps an old voice. As I accepted my high man’s invitation of marriage, a black horse galloped across our stolen lawn. I did not take it in—I let it pass.
Check out this week’s prompt at:
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
WORD COUNT: 151
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