Work Text:
”Hey, babe. Quit throwing my cigarettes in the trash. Mama needs those, sweetie. You don't understand.”
You were frustrated with her. Why did Mama keep smoking? You knew it was bad for her. You told her it was bad for her!
She knew. She knew before and after you were born, before and after she reluctantly asked if you had any money so that she could drive to the gas station for more cigarettes.
She knew before an after she screamed at you in the middle of the pharmaceutical aisle for suggesting nicotine patches instead of her sticks of hell.
But you understood. She was hurting, and harming yourself in a satisfying way was so good. Maybe how you felt about Mama and her cigarettes was how she felt about about you and your boxcutter.
You understood even more when you took a puff in the park with your friend. Under her supervision, of course; she's a responsible adult that would never allow a child to endanger themselves.
You rubbed the paper stick on your lips. It felt like kissing Mama. Your friend lit it for you so you could go first. They were always the more outgoing and bold one, but for some reason, they were far more cautious and nervous about trying substances.
With a few words of encouragement from your mother, you inhaled. It tasted minty initially. Good. The nicotine only came as an unpleasant aftertaste.
Though, as soon as you pushed out the chemicals, the smoke violated you as its abrasive fumes pushed against the walls of your lungs. You were hunched over while your friend laughed and patted your back.
They say something about your reaction not being a good sign for their turn. They took it like a champion.
You understood even more when you dragged your body to her room in a tee and sweatpants you'd been wearing the whole weekend. You were tired. Your head hurt. You just wanted to lay back down. But still, you mumbled a request for an edible with a pitiful expression.
You could feel how sunken your face was.
Mama kissed your face all over, gently. Cooing about her poor baby as she pulled open a plastic drawer. She pulled out a slice of chewy heaven and you swallowed.
You'd feel better soon enough. Those things always made you feel better.
So much better that every time you felt bad, you'd think of asking for one. But that'd seem weird. And they were expensive. So you kept it to a minimum.
Same with the boxcutter. Mama always found a way to pull your shorts when she wanted, up or down.
One time, she did it in the living room in front of Daddy while your friend was sleeping over.
That was humiliating.
You still think of it when you look at your nastiest scar.
But now, you mostly stick to painkillers. They cut out what little thought you have these days. They don't even leave physical marks, either. Mama didn't really seem to concerned about your kidneys. Or you, at all, sometimes. But you understood. Sometimes you didn't care about her, either.
Or anyone, for that matter.