Sometimes she likes to smoke.
And sure, she knows that’s what killed her mother.
But she doesn’t know why people keep telling her she has a death wish. How can she wish for something she knows is already going to happen. To wish for the inevitable? That seems silly. Like a waste of a perfectly good wish.
So, instead, she thinks of it as a time-accelerator wish. That every puff of smoke will nudge the clock forward, and give reluctant seconds a push in the right direction.
She doesn’t have a death wish. Really. She just hates to wait.