Kaya
I sit quietly in the corner of my new room, my eyes glued to the old witch in her rocking chair. Just like before, her eyes are glued to the little, worn-out book, its dry pages slicing through the silence every time she turns them.
I have already grown to hate that sound––it reminds me of nails scraping a porcelain dish.
My fingers are wrapped around a paper cup filled with water; from time to time, I look down at its steady, transparent surface, frowning a little as I think about what kind of shit it can be laced with.
At first, it made me wonder why the water had to be in a paper cup, considering the witch keeps a lot of glass around here anyway. But then, it finally dawned on me––it's not the water that's mixed with drugs. The paper itself is what adds to it.
