Don't Smoke by Beck Collett

Don’t smoke, it reminds me of apathy. I ran away when I was eight-years-old. I was gone near seventeen hours, and they never noticed I wasn’t there. That does things to the developing self, that does; discovering your parents didn’t miss you at all. It was November time, so not as if I would’ve skipped off to the sand-dunes, to sunbathe and laugh at flashers. It was cold, and wet, and the air stank of smoke. I remember trying to scrub the smell from my skin when I got home. It’s still there now, though I’ve pretty much stopped caring.

Selected: March Drabble

Published in Issue #28

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