Zoe Taylor

Worthless

Grime under nails she thumbed through the paper, some torn, some burnt, some covered in blood. She reached her number, twenty thousand, feeling the weight of the wad press against her palms like it still meant anything. Smooth on her skin, a caress of a past life. She raised her arms and opened her fingers, letting the notes pass through the gaps and float into the breeze. The air rained them back down onto her, hundreds and thousands and hard-earned at that. They drifted, twirling against a burnt sky that so few eyes gazed upon still.