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This is a fragment is part of an overall quest to practice writing fiction. The prompt was to write a flawed character, through the eyes of an omniscient narrator.

Amateur Arithmetic

The rain wouldn't stop for another three hours. At the bottom of the slope, the water pooled cold around her ankles. A drain pipe gurgled above her head, louder than her stomach grumbled.

The outline of a skeleton key flashed in the darkness, reflecting sour-white light from the street lamp. Tina popped the supermarket dumpster lid open with mute ceremony. Inside, a buffet. Food that didn't sell lay sprawled, doomed for disposal by the barely-legible expiration date printed on the box.

Thunder roared close enough to startle Tina and she let out a yelp.

Dumpster diving requires a person to make cynical decisions.

Tina's mind raced with amateur arithmetic. Foods that spoil slowly have the highest priority. Ingredients with more than one use are better than ready-made dinners. Canned, better than cooked. An airtight seal is better than a plastic box.

Another roll of thunder. A car alarm goes off. Better get backing.

Five cans of beans, three cartons of yoghurt, two bags of carrots, two bags of coffee, one jar of family-sized peanut butter. She changed her mind about the yoghurt. It could have already turned sour. Yoghurt out, frozen peas in. She could have grabbed potatoes, several kilograms, but the sight of sprouts make her queasy.

"They pour gasoline over the food," her sister had told her that morning. "They shove shards of glass in with the fruit to cut your hands". She is Tina's chosen sister, and it's too late to go back on that choice.

Tina boils peas in the flat they shared. Her sister's mood is dour. A tension hangs in the air, along with the miasma of damp concrete.

"I wish you wouldn't dig through all that shit," her sister's tone gives weight to the final three words.

Tina's jaw clenches shut.

"Why can't you go to the market and take the stuff they don't sell before it ends up in a rusting dumpster?"

No sound escapes Tina's lips. She mashes peas, her back turned to her sister.

"What if something happens to you out there? Who will take care of me?" her sister's questions bring a rush of shame into Tina's cheeks.

A ladle of warm mash splatters inside a bowl. A second one follows. Tina pushes a clean spoon inside and turns around. Ever nerve in her face is taught and tense to the point of tearing. At the other end of the room, her chosen sister lies in her bed, immobile from the chest down.

Tina puts the bowl down in the middle of the kitchen table. She takes her still-damp coat off the back of a chair and slips it back on in one, fluid gesture.

"I can't reach the bowl over there. You know that. Stop being an idiot, Tina, give me the food."

The lights switch off in the kitchen. Her sister stirs in bed. Tina jingles the keys.

"Why can't you just be thankful for once?" Tina asks, in the same tone someone would enquire where the nearest gas station is.

"After I brought you up like a mother, you expect me to thank you for the common fucking courtesy of taking care of an invalid?"

Tina knocks a chair over. Her sister throws a plastic glass against the wall. The entrance door opens with a loud creak, so loud it covers the obscenities that the two sisters exchange, words which don't deserve the dignity of being recorded.

The smell of boiled peas follows Tina as she stomps down the stairs. A loud wail echoes from above. Neither sister believes she can go back on the choice to be each other's family, although both of them will live long enough to regret not parting ways.

And just like that, it stops raining.