Film Upon The Glass

No longer able to afford the cable, her television gathered dust in a corner of the tiny room. The only other furniture was a worn couch with a lopsided dinner tray beside it. Any light entering the room was filtered through a dingy window she had long ago given up putting a covering over. Her smoking had put its own film upon the glass.

She flipped through the same magazines again, their pages fading from the oils in her fingers. Reaching for the cigarettes, she tapped the pack until it released another tobacco cylinder. Lighting up, she inhaled deeply, enjoying the freshness of the inhalation before the coughing wracked her body once more. This one took longer than ever before to recede and she could feel spittle dribbling down her chin. Sitting back she wiped it away with the sleeve of her tattered robe.

Her mind screamed in anger of how she didn’t deserve this life allotted to her. Her tear ducts had long ago dried up leaving only bitter memories. In frustration she spoke out into the empty air, “God, you’ve never helped me a day in my life, if you were real you’d have come knockin’ long ago!”

Her cigarette had burned down to the filter. Stubbing it out she closed the pages she’d been looking at. Maybe she could sleep some more? She reached for the blanket nearby and readied her head for the flattened pillow when a knock came to her door. Looking at the door she wondered if it was even worth moving to answer it.

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