Mildred

Mildred doesn't give a shit.

Mildred doesn't give a fuck either.

Mildred never says words like shit or fuck. She just thinks them. "Shit. You stupid fuck!" Mildred veers away from the SUV. "Asswipe!" A smile curls on Mildred's lips. She enjoys thinking words like asswipe.

In high school, Mildred had nicknames. She was Millie or Mil. Some of the other cheerleaders even called her Mil Mil. That was many years ago. Now she's just Mildred.

Rye toast wet with margarine starts Mildred's day. Lunch is ham sandwiches with mustard. "You bring the same lunch every day!" a young coworker laughs sweetly. Mildred looks up at the pretty blonde and shrugs. Bitch. Whore.

Mildred's manager nags her to smile, but Mildred does not deem it necessary. Mildred is good at her job. She is efficient and accurate. Her manager can shove it up her ass.

Sometimes, usually around Christmas- Mildred reviews why she's been a phlebotomist for so long. Is it because she likes to tie the tourniquets oh so tight until veins pop under the strain... to puncture flesh, to watch smiles fade as crimson life force is withdrawn? Yes, she likes all of those things. Perhaps more than she should.

Mildred spends her evenings on her faded plaid sofa. She eats canned chili from a yellow plastic bowl as Vanna turns letters. When dinner is over, Mildred aims a lighter's flame onto an unfiltered Camel. She inhales deeply, using all her might, holding the acrid smoke as long as is possible. With lungs ready to burst Mildred exhales, spewing out the poison of a hated life. Then she inhales again, deeply.