clean

six;

I climb the stairs to my one-room apartment, my thighs and hips growling with each step. The stairs are rickety and in no way safe.

My apartment smells stale and faintly of mould, and has stuff strewn across the floor and tacked to the walls. My bed is on one corner, a couple kitchen cabinets, a sink, and a small microwave in the other. My miniature TV is still on and I wince at the thought of what that hydro is going to cost me.

My book bag is leaning on my bed and I open it, somewhat determined to get at least my Biology homework done. Then maybe Ms. Glen will bump my grade up. Then maybe I'll get into a college and I can leave the memories far, far behind,

I open my books, then crawl over to the window and open that. The sickly sweet smell of the dumpsters on the street below mixed with the smell of overly greasy fries from Walton's Eatery wafts into my home. I hear a group of men laughing out front, and talking in slurred French.

I go back to my homework, intent on getting it done.

But, instead I write a letter.