Lauren wore the same pair of jeans everyday. The familiar scent of sweat, dirt and grass reminded her of dad. He was gone now. Forty-five days since his accident at the plant. It was sudden and tragic and sad. It gave her the excuse to do things like wear the same pair of jeans without washing them. No one questioned why she started smoking cigarettes. No one asked her to eat dinner or vegetables or something besides strawberry-banana smoothies. Everyone felt bad for her. Fourteen and all alone, her mother died when she was only 2 and her 17-year-old brother burned in a house fire that only her father and she escaped last year. She was bad luck.
She lived with her withering grandmother — a diabetic that hobbled around with a cane, but had a smile that would light up a room. Lauren lived in fear of her last moments. She was only 75, but it could be tomorrow or the next day and she couldn’t handle another phone call or the smell of smoke. She preferred the microwave, threw away kitchen knives and only smoked outside.
Lauren’s boyfriend, Snid, was no relief. He didn’t pity her or give her any special treatment other than her favorite flowers for her birthday and special occasions, but he was fifteen with no job and had never seen death with his own eyes. When Snid looked into Lauren’s eyes he almost always immediately had to look away. He was afraid of the whirlpool of the soul. He was afraid of being sucked in and dying himself. Lauren and Snid had been dating for three months when her father died and she crumbled in his arms, searching for a clue, barely breathing.
“It’s your fault,” he said, stroking her back.
“What did you say?” she said, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.
“It’s NOT your fault.”
“I know. I think. Maybe.”
She wiped her nose on her sweater, lit a cigarette and drank from a flask of whiskey. It was time to burn inside and out and forget about what was to come.
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