I shake the bottle slightly, tilting it to check if any gasoline remains. Once I’m sure I’m out, I toss the empty bottle to the ground and step back, reaching into my bag to retrieve a lighter. I unscrew the lid with a quiet click, feeling amusement start to outweigh my anger.
I’ve been patient and silent for far too long. That’s what my parents always tried to teach me—a key to winning. I’ve lived this way my entire life, always keeping my emotions at bay, swallowing the hot coals of anger that churn in my stomach, rotting me from the inside and turning me into a mess.
But tonight, I’ll do what I want. For the first time, I’ll follow my own desires.
My thumb presses against the little circle on the side of the lighter, sliding it down until the orange glow flickers to life. A barely perceptible warmth radiates from the flame, swaying slightly in the breeze and urging me to finish what I came here for.
I drop the lighter onto the car, flinching slightly as the blaze consumes the hood first. A flash of light erupts before the flames spread to every inch of the vehicle, devouring everything in their wake. The car alarm blares to life, and a laugh slips past my lips as I allow myself a moment to watch, relishing the sight of destruction unfolding before me.
Fuck you, West.
I take a step back, one after another, keeping my eyes on the beautiful scene before me, determined to etch it into my memory forever. Then, I turn around, sliding the black hood off my head and gazing up at the main camera. With a swift motion, I raise my middle finger, ensuring the fucker sees the smile lingering on my face before I turn and dash toward the fence, climbing over it. The thrill of excitement sends pleasant tingles through my core and fills my veins with youthful glee.
Just a few minutes have passed, and I already find myself wishing I could do that for the first time all over again.
The walls of the nursing home seem to shrink, an unseen pressure pushing in on my shoulders. The aroma of cookies clashes with the harsh scent of cigarettes, the drifting smoke a strangely calming presence beside me.
I fucking hate this place. Every time I come here, guilt wells up, and my anxiety spirals. Everything in here bothers me—the staff in their spotless white scrubs and plastered-on smiles, the aging yellow walls, and the sense of despair that lurks in every corner.
Just as I savor the crack of my fingers, a sudden slap lands on my hand, followed by a throaty cough beside me, sending an even denser wave of smoke. “How many times do I have to fucking remind you that I hate it when you do that?” My eyeslock onto hers, catching the wild glimmer that never seems to fade. “I swear to God, your joints will be fucking destroyed in a few years. Do you want that?”
I smile, earning a light slap on the back of my head in response. No matter how tough she tries to act, her gentle parenting—masked by feigned anger—always amuses me.
Delilah Cruz is a motherfucking G. Before I turned twelve and Dad took over my parenting—if you can even call it that—she was the one who took care of me. I wouldn’t call my grandma normal by any means; she taught me how to smoke weed when I was ten, beat up the boys who bullied me at school, and dropped the swear words more often than she blinked. She is the epitome of the coolest and most unconventional woman I’ve ever known, and she’s the only thing keeping me grounded these days.
Before this fucking nursing home, we were inseparable. I still remember attending business meetings with her in a suit that matched hers, learning the ropes of the job.
Everything changed when she got sick. Cancer took hold, draining the life out of her and pushing her beyond her limits. She recovered, of course—she’s always been one hell of a fighter—but it took a heavy toll on her health. No matter how many times I urged her to move into one of our houses and hire a nurse to care for her when I wasn’t around, she flat-out refused. Her reasons were twofold: first, she hated my father, often saying I was the only good thing he ever made in his life. Strangely, she never blamed me for her daughter’s death, unlike my dad.
My mother gave birth to Chloe first, but she struggled when it was my turn. To this day, I don’t fully understand why, but it was a difficult delivery, and ultimately, she didn’t survive.
In my family, I’m considered a murderer, but Delilah is the only one who doesn’t see me that way. It fucking hurts to leave the only person who loves me in this shithole.
As for the second reason, she claims to like her friends here, insisting that the staff caters to her every whim. I’ve thought about using my power to do the paperwork and forcefully move her to one of our houses, but knowing her, she’d knock us all out and run right back. I don’t want to put her through that kind of stress at her age.
“I keep forgetting it,” I mumble, letting my arms drop to my sides to keep myself from cracking my joints. I’ve picked up a habit that always seems to irritate her.
Annoyance flickers across her wrinkled face as she takes a drag of her cigarette, leaving a red lipstick stain on the paper. “Then tattoo a reminder on your fucking forehead. I’d whoop your ass if we weren’t surrounded by people.”
A chuckle threatens to escape, but I stifle it, knowing it would just annoy her more. She hates it when I don’t take her seriously.
A staff member walks by, her eyes locked on the cigarette dangling from Grandma’s mouth. She purses her lips into a thin line before lowering her head and hurrying away.
She knows it’s wiser to keep her mouth shut than risk hearing a storm of curses.
“How are you doing here?” I ask. “Need me to bring anything next time?”
She shakes her head. “Doing good.” With a smirk, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out some folded bills. “Made another two hundred yesterday. These fuckers are terrible at every game. It’s like their brains are fried.”
I roll my eyes, tilting my head in a mock-judgmental manner. “You’re still robbing them of the pennies they receive? Come on.”
I can’t recall when it started, but it has become her tradition. She’s always been good at poker, blackjack, and games like that. Delilah made sure I mastered those skills when I was eleven.
Now, she plays with the residents here, and since she’s literally unbeatable, they lose every time. What began as innocent fun has turned into a competitive venture. This is Delilah Cruz we’re talking about—a woman born in a business suit who always seeks new ways to profit.
It’s not like she needs the money; she just enjoys the thrill of the game. Cash is more of a nice little bonus.
“Be careful. If their kids find out and come here to confront you, I won’t hold back. We’ll end up leaving on a bad note,” I warn.
