My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Eight down, one to go. That was the end of it. No second chances, no other options, no way to restart or redo or undo or unwind from any consequences. This was it. The last life he could ever live. Stretching his arms out in front of him and arching his back, Benny Hamilton let his joints pop and swivel until they may as well have sighed in relief. The stitches in his neck itched badly, but he wasn't going to scratch. He wasn't angry about losing eight of his lives, not even the slightest bit upset. A cat didn't regret the way it lived its nine lives, and neither did he. He indulged in the simple pleasures and this life would be no exception. Benny didn't bother with pseudo-enlightenment or epiphanies. He stole a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and stuck it beneath his two front teeth, sucking away at the tobacco until it felt thin and wispy in his mouth. Out the window, he could see two young boys playing with a soccer ball on the pav...

Sweat and stress blisters dotted his palms and fingers in beads. The constant itching and pain and swollen feeling. Dean had thought the dots were flat warts and stung the middle finger on his right hand with liquid nitrogen. The result was more pain. Red burns zipping up and down his cuticle and knuckle. The tight black fabric of his gloves serving as the only comfort, he lay back against the couch cushions and hoped the ointment would work.