Cigarettes
By: Camille Paskind
Tags: Exulansis, Parenting, Fiction, Love, Abuse

But that was almost 30 years ago.

Now a busy working professional in Washington D.C., she was immersed in the world of business and politics. She had put those brutal years after she was abandoned behind her, once she was adopted by one of her foster families at age ten. Her new family had won her skeptical heart over with a warm, home-cooked meal and a beautifully decorated new bedroom. Together, they moved from Baltimore to Washington D.C. for her mother’s work to start their life anew, and the rest was history.

Those ten dark years back in Baltimore at the beginning included events that most couldn’t even begin to comprehend. The cigarette burn marks and scars that populated her forearms were reminder enough of some of the people she dealt with in her early years. As she grew up, she wore long-sleeved shirts in the summer in hopes of making it all a forgotten memory. Now, it was just force of habit.

Every morning, she would hop on the train near Columbia Heights and head towards downtown for work. Some days she’d catch a spin class before work, some days she’d do a happy hour with friends, and other days she’d curl up with her dog and her favorite blanket and spent hours perusing Netflix. All in all, a pretty normal life. Exactly what she wanted.

However, one very foggy day as she boarded the Metro, a darkened figure stood watching her from the opposite platform. She couldn’t see the person’s face and figured it was just another homeless guy hiding from the cold, so she boarded the train as usual.

Work was boring, so she started planning what dish she was going to bring to her father’s birthday party that coming weekend. She made a list of grocery items and packed up to leave work early, calling an Uber to make the trek easier. She walked out to get in the approaching car when the same hooded homeless man from earlier was back, now standing outside her workplace. Except it wasn’t a man, it was a woman, probably in her mid-50s. The homeless woman was just staring longingly, trying to figure out the words to say, but the working professional had to hurry into the Uber and left the homeless woman behind. The working professional stared out the back of the car until the homeless woman disappeared into the fog.

After a long shopping spree at the grocery store, the working professional arrived back at her condo, arms filled with groceries. She walked into the lobby and threw her bags onto one of the lounge chairs to give herself a breather before heading upstairs when she heard someone behind her clearing their voice.

“Um, hello.”

She turned around. It was that damn homeless woman again, with her hood covering her eyes.

“I don’t know why you’re following me but I have pepper spray on me and I’m not afraid to use it,” she said defiantly.

“No, n-no, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you,” the woman stammered, “I can’t believe I found you. You still look like him.”

“What?”

“Like Charlie. My Charlie.” The woman started tearing up and took the hood off. She had piercing blue eyes. The working professional’s heart skipped a beat, but she wasn’t sure why.

“I’m sorry I don’t know who Charlie is, can I call someone for you? I really have to get upstairs…”

“It’s me! It’s your mommy, I knew I’d find you because you look so much like him. I need help,” the homeless woman pleaded. The working professional’s stomach dropped, and her mouth puckered.

“Excuse me?” Memories from the first ten years of her life flooded back and flashed through her mind for a split second before she snapped out of it.

“I-I know this isn’t super normal and I know you probably don’t remember me but I really need some money,” the homeless woman rambled. “And I know that you work in that beautiful tall building on 16th Street so you must be well-off and I just am not doing well and I need — ”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said get the fuck out of my apartment.” The working professional was seething. “My mother and father live in a nice house south of the city and as far as I am concerned, I have had no other parents.” She began to usher the woman out onto the street.

“But please, I just need to go to Walgreens and get — ”

“I don’t want anything to do with you, I don’t even know who you are. You need to leave.” The homeless woman looked shocked and hurt. “How dare you come see me? DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH? You don’t know what I’ve seen and what I’ve had to do to survive and I sure as hell do not want to think about it for another SECOND so get the hell out of my sight and don’t come back.”

The working professional stormed into the lobby, leaving the homeless woman in the fog. She grabbed her bags and headed to the elevator. She pushed the button and sank to the floor, hands trembling as she began to hyperventilate. She reached for her purse and popped a few pills from an unlabeled orange bottle and ran into her condo as soon as the elevator doors opened.

She walked over to her window and opened a brown box that was hidden behind the curtain. Hands still trembling, she slowly took a drag of a cigarette, calming herself down. She stared out into the fog and forced herself to just repress, repress everything, like she was used to doing so long ago. After a while, it all seemed, once again, just a distant memory.