[ WP ] Poor people are able to pawn off their memories .

I save it for last. My mother, cradled in light. Her face half covered by a pale pink scarf. Her skin dark against the rose petal shade. Her mouth moving. The sound of her voice as she sings to me. 
 
 I have given them all of it. Her smiles. Her warm hands. Even her name. Sold for drugs made of air and light. Drugs that make me forget the scabs on my hands and the festering wound on my leg. 
 
 At the clinic they wanted to take it but I would n't let them. If you ca n't walk you're as good as dead. Swept up by the machines at night into the cracks and crevices of the dark rippled streets. 
 
 Donny asks me if I'm sure. He's decent, for his sort. Wears these ragged finger-less gloves. Thinks he's King of the Sty. His yellow teeth and hacking cough say otherwise. 
 
 But like I said, he's decent enough. Gives you proper credit for what it's worth. 
 
 I close my eyes, lean back. Keep the memory fixed. Her hair, curly and soft. My small hand grabbing at it as she sings. Donny shoves the needle in. Ca n't feel it anymore. Nerves are tender things. 
 
 Her eyes, dark gray as she looks down at me. 
 
 `` My precious,'' she whispers. 
 
 I jerk. Donny asks if I'm okay. I shake my head, ask for credits. He hands them to me. I do n't ask him what I've lost. I wo n't miss it anyway.
