Ana
She sucked slowly on her cigarette, the ashes falling unnoticed to the table below. The end of her cancer stick glowed brightly in the gloom of the dark room, reflecting in her grey, colorless, eyes. Scratching her head and running her fingers through the white hair, she tried to put some order to the mess. She wiped her hand on the squalid nylon gown she wore and continued enjoying her slow death. Looking around, she sighed deeply, taking in a deep breath and letting out a quick burp. It was then that she noticed the ashes that had fallen previously and attempted to brush them to the floor, missing most of them.
After extinguishing her only companion, she stood feebly and groaned, stretching her shoulders and back, sticking out her chest, and burping again. She began to walk to the stairs to return to the room in which she stayed. Stepping slowly and deliberately, pausing as she reached the three steps, becoming even more careful as she began to climb them, bracing herself between the brick wall and the doorframe, she ascended the stairs. When at last she reached the top, she stopped and let out a long breath, as if exerted.
She took a detour to the left, and her wrinkled feet met the cold tile of the kitchen floor, but she did not react. She took down a dusty mug from the rack and filled it with water without cleaning. She then placed the cup in the microwave for heating. She wiped the counter top with her dry hand, believing it was coming clean. After retrieving the water, she placed a bag of Folger’s inside. The hike down the hall to her room then began.
She entered and examined the high bed. Gradually, she pulled herself up and lied down on her side, her back facing the door and anyone who might come. An ache commenced in the core of her bones, and a groan escaped her lips. Thunder sounded in the distance. She turned on her radio and listened to the weather. Silently, a wish was formed. Let the storm come; let it be over quickly. She would have to get up again soon to feed her addiction.