He sat on the cracked stone step, his head in his hands. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t go back inside. He had passed ‘too much’ hours ago.
He needed a break. A permanent break.
His cold, stiff fingers fumbled with the lighter, a cigarette clung to his dry, bitten lips. It was his sixth in a row, but the soft crackle and hiss of the burn still felt like an instant release. Each exhalation brought a degree of calm, of reflection. He lifted the lighter, cupped against the wind. The twitch of his thumb automatic as he let the flame dance at the end of the straight. It had to be straights, rollies didn’t have that chemical tar kick he craved. He knew it would kill him; it already was. Each drag another moment he wouldn’t have to face.
The voices played out behind him, an angry story of hurt and resentment. One he had no desire to be part of for yet another day.
A soft, dry heat danced over his parted lips as the hot smoke gushed through. The beautiful burn of relief. His raw lips stung as he inhaled hard against the welcome heat. In that moment, it was all there was; the rush and the burn. It filled his soul, his lungs awash with the thick of it. The calm settled in his muscles with each drag. His heart rate slowed, no longer a jack hammer that filled his ears with the pound of blood.
The smoke rose up his throat, the soft curls whispered to chase freedom as they slipped his lips. He watched the suspended tendrils drift and disappear in the grey twilight.
The smash of broken pottery on a stone floor jarred through his cultivated cloud of calm.
Emotion spilled through tear choked screams as the fight inside reached a crescendo. Hard edged words filled with insincere hate flowed out the open door behind him. It washed over him, the ebb and flow of familiar argument.
Hot ash tumbled down his chest as the cigarette on his lips shed dead weight. He looked at the grey powder, flecked with the last glow of fallen embers, and somehow, that was it. Defeat cracked inside him. He could not fight the tears that poured unrestrained down his cheeks; the warm smoke no longer able to repress the cold shudders of despair. His thoughts darted down familiar darkened paths.
It was hopeless. His life would never change. It would always be him who lived it.
His mind began to wander to the knife. The glint of a steel blade, the slice of skin, the release; the love he had left behind. A resolve kicked inside him. No. Not that again. The questions, the framed concern, the clucked sympathies. No, it wasn’t worth it.
The salt of hot tears burnt down his cheeks.
He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a fresh packet of cigs. Through the blur, his fingers found the plastic seal with a tremble of need.
His hand shook as he pulled another white stick of salvation free. His lips embraced the welcome beige butt as it came to rest of the worn, thin skin of his lower lip.
He hadn’t the heart for the razor, for the leap, for the rope. This was enough.
Suicide by degrees.
Phew, I didn't think I would manage a story in no -ing words, but just about managed it! (if ctrl + F hasn't let me down). Once I got in the the swing of it, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. This constrained writing is great fun but out of my comfort zone, I do tend to harken back to well trod ground.
This is my entry to @svashta 's fantastic Constrained Writing - each week a new challenge is set, will you rise to meet it?
Photo Credit by pixabay user Haplessman who has about 30 images of a brilliant standard, including a stunning landscape shot. Each picture is really well balanced and when considered by itself, has a real weight. I hope very much to get to use this guys work again!