Hanging By A Thread

I tell you what, February is wearing me out.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout this longer-than-it-should-be month.

So, I’ve been running myself ragged. And yes, I know - we've all made sacrifices.

The house is untidy, the squiddrel needs feeding, and - as my mother often observed - there’s not a badger in the house washed.

I'll put some coffee on... EolistBlend, anyone?

---

The craving burns in him.

He sits in the dim room, cursing the dazzling blades of sunlight that are slicing through the cracks in the curtains, the carpet, his brain. He did too much last night, pushed his body far more than is healthy.

He’s addicted. This need, this compulsion, drives him. He used to survive on one fix a week, but as his appetite increased, so did his need. He feels so weak, so lost, in the indescribable sensations it provides.

The phone lies in his lap, his twitching fingers remembering the call to his supplier.

Anticipating.

The merchandise will be here fast, but not fast enough.

The craving burns in him.

His friends have gone, his money is vanishing fast, and his job hangs by a thread. He always told himself he could handle it, that he would always be the one making the decisions. He would be in charge of his habit.

But he needs it. It has him.

His eyes close, this damned sluggishness claiming him for a few minutes peace. Cold sweat on his brow, his fever consuming him.

The doorbell rings. Finally! His heart sings! Cash gripped in his damp hand, he compulsively stumbles from his threadbare armchair, and lurches to the front door to receive the delivery... an extra large, stuffed-crust meaty pizza with extra sauce, mushrooms and jalapeños.

The craving burns in him.

He really needs to get some Alka Seltzer.


Indigo

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