I don't really want to know what's good for me

"We're all going to die anyway, what's the point?" she said, hair sprawling over my notebooks, cigarette burning between her skinny spider-fingers. "Work, school, family ... can't believe those things still exist"

I hated her cold, controlled way of laughing at things that are supposed to matter. Her strange life of living with no parents in her messy apartment was fucked up to say the least. An apartment she barely sleeps in, for that matter. I used to ask her why, and it was always a shiny story lined with glitter that started with her getting high for free and ended in that empty apartment. Of course, she would always be too drunk or high at the end of the night to realize she was all alone on her bare mattress. She would just fall into a heavy sleep, numb beyond control, wake up sober, get ready as quick as she could, and rush out of there as if she didn't want to realize that there was no food on the table, or someone to greet her good morning. I knew that as much as she joked about family not mattering, it hurt her inside.

"I don't understand why you won't let yourself be happy,"

She simply sighed, as if I was not worth the breath she could be using to inhale her cigarettes, and smiled. A pitiful, condescending smile that made me feel like a five-year old who had just been scolded.  She pulled out her extra cigarette from behind her ear and lit it on the edge of the one she was already smoking.

She turned over onto her stomach, faced me dead-on. "God and I just don't get along," she whispered, staring at me with those vicious brown bear eyes. They were old, and experienced, and welcoming death. So out of place on her young face and so obviously witnesses to something I had never seen.