Mom returned from the toilet, smelling like she’d dived headfirst to a barrel of whiskey. She must’ve bought the bottle at the tax-free when I wasn’t looking. Her promises were always empty, much like her beer cans.
“Bermuda awaits, hon!” Her breath made me wanna puke. The stewardess glanced our way, checking if everyone’s seat belts were fastened. I slid out of my seat and slipped to the toilets before the stewardess noticed.
Locking the door, I took out my Zippo and held it close to the smoke detector. Click-click.
This would be the last time I traveled with Mom.
This story was in response to a photo prompt from the Friday Fictioneers, here’s the link to the blog hosting the challenge:
The beautiful picture of the plane (which may be a bit too small to actually fly to Bermuda, as I’ve just realized) was taken by Melanie Greenwood.