Queen Of Ashes

The chipped paint on the walls wasn’t just cracked- it was bleeding. Pale strips curled like old scars, exposing the raw drywall beneath, veins of neglect pulsing through the apartment like a slow infection. The air was thick with rot and something sweeter- an artificial citrus clinging to everything, masking the real smell: stale liquor, cold ash and the kind of sadness that soaked into fabric. This wasn’t a home. It was a holding cell for grief. Faith sat at the edge of the couch, barely breathing, listening to the world try to forget about them. Outside, sirens faded into the distance. Inside, silence took up too much space. Her mother - what was left of her - was draped over the arm of a threadbare chair. The bones in her cheeks pushed against skin gone too pale, too slack. Once, she’d been beautiful. Men used to say so in low, hungry tones. Now they walked past her in the hallway without looking twice. A Strand of once-vibrant strawberry blonde hair fell across her mother’s face, tangled and lifeless. Faith reached to brush it back, then stopped. It wasn’t tenderness. It was survival. Movement risked waking the storm. The room smelled like fear disguised as air freshener. Vanilla-linen-something sprayed too often and not enough. A candle burned low on a cluttered table, its wax pool swallowing an old photograph - the only one Faith hadn’t thrown out. She couldn’t remember the moment it was taken. Just that her mother had been smiling. A real smile. Not the broken one she wore now. Food was a rumor. Dinner, if it came, was a hand-me-down from the neighbor or something Faith stole on the way home from school. She learned how to make dry cereal taste like dessert. Learned how to eat slowly so her siblings didn’t notice how little was left. The fridge buzzed like it was dying. The lights flickered when it kicked on. The wallpaper peeled like it was trying to escape the walls. So was Faith. She’d mastered stillness. Learned how to fold herself into corners, how to become invisible when her mother started shaking. She could tell when the highs were fading - her mother’s hands would twitch like they were typing invisible regrets, and her voice would turn glassy with rage or empty apologies. Either way, it was a warning. And Faith knew how to listen to warnings. On good days, they were quiet. On bad days, the air would explode with screaming, things would fly, and Faith would shield her baby sister under the kitchen table, whispering lies about princesses and adventure until the storm passed. But that night - that night was different. The knock at the door didn’t sound like danger. It sounded like debt. Three hard knocks. Then silence. Her mother didn;t move. She stared at the TV, which hadn’t worked in weeks. Her lips parted, breath shallow. She knew. Maybe she’d known this moment was coming all along. Faith opened the door. And let the devil in.