Broken
You get up, walk to your phone and pick up the handset. "Gabe here, who's there?" you ask, more as if making a statement than phrasing a question. "Donald here. Come to the Beauburg in one hour". You hang up. A glance at the table reveals a cigarette box of blues and a silver zippo peacefully lying beside to the phone. You open the box, which is almost empty, and pull a fag out of it, put it between your lips and light it. The sound of flipping the cover of the lighter pleases you. You stand quietly for a while, inhale, wait for a few seconds, then blow smoke over your face. The sounds of the street traffic invade your studio apartment as you open your window, cig between your fingers, and bend outside it.
You like to think smoking keeps you sane. You've been smoking since you were 16, and you've never tried to quit. Not even during your periods of otherwise healthy living. Even with having smoked that long, you still burn a maximum of 10 cigs a day, although your consumption of alcohol and tobacco has accelerated lately. Before it was seasonal; you had your episodes of decline, but you were never a chain smoker or a drunk. Lately, it's coming closer to that. It's not that bad. You kind of like it. It brings content to your life. Hitting rock bottom. You suck for a while, blowing pollution over the city every few seconds, then put it out on the ashtray.
Your window makes a creaking noice as you shut it. The hinges are getting rusty. You stare blankly at your floor for a while, hands crossed. You don't have to meet Don, you don't need the money that bad. But it might be a good idea to keep the contacts alive, since you haven't been on a job for a while. You sit on the border of your bed, holding your head between your knees, hands crossed over your neck. Still tired.
You like to think smoking keeps you sane. You've been smoking since you were 16, and you've never tried to quit. Not even during your periods of otherwise healthy living. Even with having smoked that long, you still burn a maximum of 10 cigs a day, although your consumption of alcohol and tobacco has accelerated lately. Before it was seasonal; you had your episodes of decline, but you were never a chain smoker or a drunk. Lately, it's coming closer to that. It's not that bad. You kind of like it. It brings content to your life. Hitting rock bottom. You suck for a while, blowing pollution over the city every few seconds, then put it out on the ashtray.
Your window makes a creaking noice as you shut it. The hinges are getting rusty. You stare blankly at your floor for a while, hands crossed. You don't have to meet Don, you don't need the money that bad. But it might be a good idea to keep the contacts alive, since you haven't been on a job for a while. You sit on the border of your bed, holding your head between your knees, hands crossed over your neck. Still tired.