The last cigarette
The only way I could breathe was through the cigarette. For once, I did not wonder if the last person who shared this prized B&H had brushed since the last Valentine’s Day. The nicotine raced up my respiratory system but if it beat the adrenaline, I can never be sure of. Maybe, I dint care. Was I going to throw up? I was dehydrated. Food for thought here. As much as I hoped water could stop, or at least delay the throw up, I knew it wouldn’t. It wasn’t dehydration, something was choking me.
I had disappointed my friends. Friends who believed in me. Friends who could swear upon my words. Friends who looked up to me. Am I just another fake? The questions wouldn’t stop, unless of course, I throw up an answer to hand over a valid rejection to the very root of these questions.
Half the personalities on my orkut friends’ list couldn’t have imagined a sight of the half smoked cigarette pressed between the lips that had once uttered those one line phrases of wisdom that almost changed the way they thought of life. Well, atleast so it seemed.
“Burn in hell”, phoebe’s words denounced me in high treble, crossfaded, and un-synced frequency sounds.
