My Cold Life



I sat there on the old, concrete steps, hoping to be dead. As I blew out a puff of heavy white smoke, I stare at the blurred visions of the late night partiers. Some girls wore skirts too short, and the men with them were usually wearing cheap sports coats. This world was so predictable; the only thing anyone wanted was to be drunk and pleasured. I just wanted happiness.

                 My whole life I had wanted that. Nothing more. I was born on the streets, raised by the streets, and I’ll probably die on the streets. I stood up, extinguishing my cigarette on my bare thigh. The hot ashes sizzled, leaving a small red circle on my otherwise porcelain skin. I’m quite skinny, my thighs were no exception, I usually wore baggy sweaters and shirts to hide my imperfection, but today I wore a black crop top, halted above my belly button, showing a series of cuts and burns. I also chose a black skirt which hugged my body like the hug I’d never had. My thigh high black socks peeked out over my dirty combat boots.

                 I stepped inside the old hospital, vibrating with teen angst and loud music. Upon entering gave me a thrill, more than the drugs I’d abused over the years. It was like being brought back to life, like a surge coursing through my veins. I loved it here; it was one of the few places I called home. I felt my way through the crowd, taking a drink from another’s hand. I tilted my head back, taking the alcohol in. All I ever wanted was happiness. The thought echoed through my mind as I walked into the room I had died in.