There was a lovely little fire growing in her belly. Fed by the lies her mother told her, and the dreams her father tried to crush.
Old oak tree branches woke her this morning. Caia rubbed the middle of her forehead trying to will away an impending headache. She knew it would come, as it did whenever the wind blew the branches. She pulled on her robe that was balled up at the foot the bed. Caia never hung things she knew she’d use again sooner rather than later. The gnarly smell wafting about her house hit her as she threw open the bedroom door–“the fuck is that?” she groaned.
Salmon croquettes, old ones, were slowly adhering to a plate in her kitchen. “Come on! April, what the?” she said mashing them into the garbage.
“Wha? I was gonna eat those! Then I saw this story on the news about a meteor shower and I completely forgot abou’ it. Sorry.” she mumbled.