The Time It Takes To Fall

Burns and Virtues

USA, 2019 A.D.

A smell of garden flowers wafted throughout the small apartment, the scent emanating in the form of steam spewing forth from the cramped bathroom. A day's worth of hard work had put Cinder in a good mood. She had finished four projects that day, and while none of them had been particularly difficult, the sense of accomplishment gave her an extra sense of purpose.

Drawing her damp hair off her shoulders and into a messy bun on the top of her head, Cinder walked into her musty kitchen, painted in various shades of uncomplimentary yellow. The color choice was not something that Cinder would have picked, but over time, she had grown to appreciate the uniqueness of such ghastly shades.

When Cinder had first moved into the apartment, Iko had nearly fainted at the sight of it, claiming that the place was an abomination. Cinder hadn't cared, feeling that as long as it was her own, that's all that mattered.

Despite all of Iko's constant complaints as to the horrendous color scheme, Cinder enjoyed the fact that her place had character. It wasn't every day you went into a home where each wall was painted a different, unmatching color.

Cinder slid around on the ugly beige tiling, her long socks gliding softly across the floor. She was dressed in her most comfortable clothes: large green sweatshirt, worn, black leggings, and socks. The clothes were clean, and Cinder was as well, for possibly the first time that day since leaving her house. She relished the feeling.

It wasn't that Cinder didn't enjoy her job— she loved mechanics— but sometimes she missed being clean all the time. It was pleasant to remain unworried as to the amount of grease one had on their face. But then again, the satisfaction of getting her hands dirty in the midst of a project was something that brought Cinder more satisfaction than anything else.

Humming tunelessly, Cinder popped a frozen burrito into the microwave. She pulled a glass down from the cupboard, and filled it with water from the sink, savoring the satisfaction the liquid brought to her parched throat. She always felt extra thirsty after a hot shower.

The microwave dinged, and from the inside Cinder could hear the soft sizzle of melted cheese. Her mouth watered; Cinder had barely had a moment for lunch that day and had woken too late for an adequate breakfast. This burrito was about to be the highlight of her day.

Rolling her sleeves up to her elbows, Cinder picked up the burrito, cussing only a little bit as the cheese burned her fingers. Despite the heat emanating from her tortilla-wrapped heaven, Cinder took an enormous bite from it, opening her mouth in an attempt to release the agonizing heat that attacked her tongue. Her open-mouthed munching did nothing to relieve the pain, but Cinder carried on, not caring to wait any longer to eat her burrito.

Within a minute— and not a second longer, for she was famished— Cinder finished her burrito. Feeling unsatisfied with the singular pocket of Mexican delight, Cinder popped a second one into the microwave, setting the timer for fifteen seconds less in the hope of a less devastating effect on her mouth— although, the damage was already done.

Brushing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Cinder felt the burned flesh there, and the slight metallic taste that accompanied it. She really had no patience, and it always led to her getting hurt.

A buzzing sounded from the table, breaking Cinder from her thoughts of burns and virtues. She glanced at the fold-up card table, staring at her phone that rested face down upon the torn plastic.

Bemusement colored her thoughts: Cinder never received phone calls. The only people calling her were scammers or telemarketers, and those people didn't count. They didn't know her name. They weren't calling her, Cinder Linh— they were calling a ten digit number.