Page 76 of Broken Pieces
It floats by the dresser, sagging at the edges, holding on to the last breath of air it doesn’t deserve. The ribbon’s crusted with dust, curled in on itself the way everything in this house eventually does.
This is what birthdays look like here.
No candles. No cake. Just the same tired walls, the same fucking ache in my chest.
Eighteen… And it already feels too old to matter.
I lie on my back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling.
It's getting bigger, spreading across the plaster in uneven circles.
They say eighteen is the age when everything begins.
Freedom. Adulthood. The world waiting for you with open fucking arms.
It sure as shit doesn’t feel that way.
The room seems smaller, the air heavier, every breath a little harder to take.
I’m not free.
I’m just… empty. Used up before I got the chance to spread my wings and fly.
A knock cuts through the quiet.
Three dull thuds that hit. Dolores never waits. The door creaks open, hinges crying out in protest.
“Are you awake?” Her voice is rough, morning-thick, with no trace of softness in it.
I push myself up, hair sticking to my face, sheets twisted around my legs.
“Yeah.”
She stands in the doorway in her robe, hair pinned, coffee in hand. Her face is unreadable, wearing that same empty expression she saves for bills and bad news.
“You realize what day it is.”
“Yeah.” I pull the blanket over my legs. “Hard to forget.”
She lets out a sigh that sounds too heavy for the morning. “Then you already know what comes next.”
I’ve seen this coming, the colder tone, the shampoo she stopped buying for me.
“Dolores.”
“You’re eighteen now.” Her tone doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t soften either. “That means the checks stop. And when the checks stop, so do you staying here. I can’t keep you for free.”
“But I have nowhere to go.” My throat aches, but I keep my voice flat. I won’t give her the sound of me breaking.
“That’s not my problem.” Her eyes drift across the room, landing on everything except me. “You had plenty of time to get ready. You knew this was coming.”
I let out a small laugh. It sounds wrong. Empty.
“Yeah. Because people are just dying to rent a place to some broke kid with nothing but a garbage bag full of clothes.”
She shrugs, the movement lazy, uncaring. “I’m not running a charity. You age out, you move out. That’s how it works.”
She crosses the room; the floor creaking under her slippers.
