The Smoke (Patreon)

He lit another cigarette from the same pack, not concerned anymore. Fuck resolutions. Fuck consequences. If anything it could be a good thing. Just ten minutes ago his main concerns were cholesterol levels and market volatility. Eight minutes ago it was the temptation of the opened pack of cigarettes, despite his vague “being healthier” new years resolution. Seven minutes ago it was the chest pain and the numbness in his limbs. He feared a cardiac arrest or a heart attack, if they even were different things. Five minutes ago it was the convulsions, the sweat, how his whole body was shifting, like it was being torn apart from the inside. He stumbled towards the phone to make an emergency call. Something in the hall mirror caught his eye. Three minutes ago he was worried that no ID card would be valid anymore, that he had no clothes that would fit, that there was no way he could convince anyone at work that he was employed there. How could he get his assets from the bank? Two minutes ago, when the stinging sensation broke out into tats all over his body, he worried that he wouldn’t be employed anywhere else either. What he saw in the mirror gave him a feeling of dread and revulsion. He had flickers of concerns for Susan. Was this contagious? Was she in danger? Would he lose his mind as well, and hurt her? Was she behind this? She must be, that cunt. But then suddenly he just couldn’t care anymore. Fuck other people. He was gonna empty that pack. If nothing else happened, fine. If it changed him more, who cares? Bring it.