Scars by Suzanne Hicks
We were never young like the other neighborhood kids. We were old like we had our own house key and knew how to boil noodles that we ate for dinner. Old like the scars on our arms and legs from learning how to ride our bike without training wheels. Old like we smoked cigarettes made from notebook paper, soggy with saliva. But on the day we watched as our goldfish was dumped into the sewer drain we cried like fucking babies. That’s what she called us as we sat in the backseat of the packed car when we drove away.
Suzanne Hicks is a disabled writer living with multiple sclerosis. Her stories have appeared in Sledgehammer Lit, Spoonie Magazine, The Write-In, and elsewhere. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband and their animals. Find her at suzannehickswrites.com and on Twitter @iamsuzannehicks.