The Last Drag

He pulled the synthstick to his lips once again. They enclose around the filter, holding it there momentarily. For a moment, he wondered whether he should stop. The intake of poison slowly chafing its way through his body can't be good.

A sharp intake of breath broke that momentary will, shattering it into a million pieces to join the other millions of pieces as the drug coursed its way through his veins.

Failed.

Slowly but sure, he exhaled, letting the smoke escape from his mouth. As it rises ever higher, his eyes traced its eventual dissipation into thin air.

Again.

He gaze moved down, looking at the synthstick between his index and his thumb. It's not going anywhere, but it's trying its best: slowly, but surely, it degenerates upon itself, become shorter and shorter, turning into the burning embers that falls into nothingness.

Just like all of us.

He chuckled, an ironic undertone rippling through. A cough interrupted him violently, to be followed by a few more in quick succession. Too late, though; his eyes watered as he tried to hold it back. He smiled another wry smile, all to himself.

Of course to himself. There's no one else around.

He doesn't quite know why it is that he's doing what he's doing. What he's been doing for the past hour, which is slowly killing himself. What he knows...is that he's enjoying it. Every bit of it.

He took one last drag, feeling the high and the rush it gave him, and letting it all out as he drops the filter and, stomping on it, circled it slowly with his boot. And then he lets out one last breath, knowing that he can go no lower, that never will at any point of his life will he be in the position that he's at now.

Rock bottom.

He smiled to himself.

Now the only way is up.

*Read The Journey.
*Read Tears of the Son.
*Read Across the Stars.
*Read The Prodigal's Return.