She killed time by fabricating false memories and decorating alleys with graffiti. Not once did she ever consider that time was actually killing her. In her mind, she was always the one in control—always the culprit, never the victim. Through infinite nights spent partying until her feet were embellished with dirt and blisters, falling in love (over and over and over) and tripping into stale puddles, she held on tightly to the wheel of time. She would never tell you what she was thinking in fear that those who knew her thoughts could take away the grip she had on life, which would then send her entire existence into a spiraling circle of lost dominance. Or so she assumed that's how it would end. She knew what would make a person tick and she knew exactly how to get her way, for she had years of experience in manipulation. However, not one person knew what made her tick in return. She was impossible to predict because most of the time even she didn't know what she would to do next. Her entire way of life was a mystery. Whenever she was asked if she was doing well, her response was always, "Well, I'm still here, aren't I? I suppose that means I'm doin' alright." Her vagueness defined her, every single thought uncharted by anyone, excluding herself.
She lit the first cigarette without thinking twice, continuing to light them as if she were a machine and those were the one commodity that kept her circuits from shorting. Had she known that those little sticks of enslaving addiction would end her life, would she have stopped? The answer is her parallel because it as well is a mystery. She craved that control and persisted to suppose it was she who was in jurisdiction of the lighter, in regulation of her hand raising the murder weapon to her lips. And yet, in another attempt to dictate her life independently, she fell short.
She misplaced control days beyond recall and she was coasting through life with opposite hands on her lap folded neatly, the burden of unlit fixation between her thin fingers. The demons slowly evaded her mind and soul as she surrendered, finally, to something other than herself. The steering wheel was no longer in her custody; for now, she passably sat back and watched generations develop as she gently raised another cigarette to her lips, blowing the smoke into the face of fate.
