Pink Hair, Dead Eyes
why is it easier to burn than it is to heal?
Iris finally picks up her mother’s call on a lazy Tuesday afternoon. She doesn’t actually mean to. The phone wakes her up and out of instinct, she unlocks it and holds it to her ear.
“Hello?”
”Iris?”
The woman’s voice makes her blood run cold. It’s been years since she’s spoken to her.
“Mom?”
”Yes, baby, it’s me!” She sounds slightly hysterical. ”How are you? Are you okay?”
Are you clean yet, is what she really wants to ask, Iris knows. Their last encounter involved Iris high on PCP, sprinting out of the house after throwing a picture frame in her mother’s general direction. She then slammed the door in the woman’s face and hopped into Scotty’s Mustang.
And that was it.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
”Well, what have you been up to?” She sniffles. It makes Iris’ chest ache.
“Working.”
”Where?”
The girl sighs, sitting up in bed and swinging her legs over it. She reaches over to her nightstand and grabs her pack of cigarettes. She pulls one out and places it between her lips, lighting it and taking a deep breath.
“I work in a club.”
”Like where you… dance?” Her breath catches in her throat when she says it and Iris squeezes her eyes shut.
“No, I’m just a bartender,” she lies.
”Oh, okay.” She pauses. Iris can just see her nibbling on her bottom lip. She’s probably sitting in the kitchen, curtains pulled back from the tiny window that sits above the sink. She’s making tea on the stove. The smell of a home cooked meal in the oven permeates the air.
Iris misses it sometimes. All the time.
”Are you okay with money right now?”
It’s an offensive question, but she understands why her mother wonders.
“I’m fine. Look, Mom, I need to go. I need to start getting ready for work.” Another lie.
She puts the cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand then stands up.
”It’s not even eleven AM.”
“I know. It’s a day shift. Sad people lunch rush.”
Her mother laughs, but its humorless. It ends with a depressing sigh. “Okay, sweetheart.”
“Okay. Bye, Mom.”
“Iris, baby?”
“Hm?”
”Can we start talking more often?”
Iris runs a hand through her tangled hair. Tears prick her eyes. “Yeah, Mom. We can try.”
She hangs up after that, unable to take any more of the conversation. Walking into her small den, she flips on the TV then grabs the pipe sitting on the table in front of her, pushing a few other items away—a Stephen King book, a pack of gum, an empty carton of cigarettes. She really needs to clean. It’s not going to happen today, though, even if it is her only day off.
No, today she’s just going to get high and block out the feelings of missing her mom and the rest of her old life.
“Hello?”
”Iris?”
The woman’s voice makes her blood run cold. It’s been years since she’s spoken to her.
“Mom?”
”Yes, baby, it’s me!” She sounds slightly hysterical. ”How are you? Are you okay?”
Are you clean yet, is what she really wants to ask, Iris knows. Their last encounter involved Iris high on PCP, sprinting out of the house after throwing a picture frame in her mother’s general direction. She then slammed the door in the woman’s face and hopped into Scotty’s Mustang.
And that was it.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
”Well, what have you been up to?” She sniffles. It makes Iris’ chest ache.
“Working.”
”Where?”
The girl sighs, sitting up in bed and swinging her legs over it. She reaches over to her nightstand and grabs her pack of cigarettes. She pulls one out and places it between her lips, lighting it and taking a deep breath.
“I work in a club.”
”Like where you… dance?” Her breath catches in her throat when she says it and Iris squeezes her eyes shut.
“No, I’m just a bartender,” she lies.
”Oh, okay.” She pauses. Iris can just see her nibbling on her bottom lip. She’s probably sitting in the kitchen, curtains pulled back from the tiny window that sits above the sink. She’s making tea on the stove. The smell of a home cooked meal in the oven permeates the air.
Iris misses it sometimes. All the time.
”Are you okay with money right now?”
It’s an offensive question, but she understands why her mother wonders.
“I’m fine. Look, Mom, I need to go. I need to start getting ready for work.” Another lie.
She puts the cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand then stands up.
”It’s not even eleven AM.”
“I know. It’s a day shift. Sad people lunch rush.”
Her mother laughs, but its humorless. It ends with a depressing sigh. “Okay, sweetheart.”
“Okay. Bye, Mom.”
“Iris, baby?”
“Hm?”
”Can we start talking more often?”
Iris runs a hand through her tangled hair. Tears prick her eyes. “Yeah, Mom. We can try.”
She hangs up after that, unable to take any more of the conversation. Walking into her small den, she flips on the TV then grabs the pipe sitting on the table in front of her, pushing a few other items away—a Stephen King book, a pack of gum, an empty carton of cigarettes. She really needs to clean. It’s not going to happen today, though, even if it is her only day off.
No, today she’s just going to get high and block out the feelings of missing her mom and the rest of her old life.
♠ ♠ ♠
chapter title credit to The Cahinsmokers' 'Setting Fires'