1 Intoxication

He brought a cigarette to his chapped lips. The ashen poison clawed at his lungs like a caged animal that starved for its release. In a prolonged exhale, an opaque cloud slipped from his grasp and brought forth a hacked cough. He tossed the cigarette onto the mattered carpet to burn the remnants of itself out. Its grey currents pervaded the stale air and danced around the room like loose ribbons in the wind.

His throat itched with the thirst to drink something, anything, that would take away a piece of his mind—a piece of her. He raised a small, neatly polished, crystalline glass to eye level. The cascaded light of the evening sun shone through the blinds and remodelled the cool beverage into that of liquid gold. The first gulp was always the hardest, yet, it remained his favourite. It was the burn of it—the numbing sensation that followed the harsh flames that nipped at his insides as the cool amber liquid coated his throat; the way his ears tuned out everything, but the languid rhythm of his heart; the way the small glass sat perfectly in his large calloused hand. It was intoxicating.

Half a bottle later; he was no longer forcing the liquid down, but was welcoming the burning sensation it accompanied—anything to fill the empty seat beside him. He left the beverage to swirl in his mouth for a second. In a swift gulp, the icy liquid ran flames down the walls of his throat. He slammed the glass onto the old timber counter. Quickly, another glass was poured, and another, then one more. Small pearlescent beads escaped from the corners of his mouth, trickled down his chin, and painted bronze splotches into his wrinkled, sweat-stained, collar.

He'd grown fed up of sitting alone. Shakily, he stood. His gaze—dull and void of emotion. His arms fell slack against his sides. The crystal glass that had rested in his sun-spotted, hand, fragmented into thousands of tiny shards at his feet. Slowly, he trailed down the hallway. His delayed mentation lagged his movements and forced him into a stagger. His knee buckled under his weight; his body harshly collided with an old china cabinet. The mounds of dust on the shelves wafted into the air, and clung to the thin film of sweat which sheathed his body. His eyes—clouded by the thick veil of nicotine and bourbon—stared blankly into the eyes of the unrecognisable man in the glass.

This was the time everything would kick in.

Hot—he felt too hot—he began to relieve himself of the confining restraint of his shirt. Tight—it was too tight—he managed to rid an arm from its sleeve, then began on the other.

Slowly, yet hurried, he stumbled down the hallway. His breaths fell ragged and uneven; his steps faltered at the foot of her door. He peered through the creek between the door and the frame. Old embers ignited in previously lifeless orbs. His eyes ravenous and throat gurgling and growling.

* * *

She hated this time of the night.

Never had she a single puff, nor sip, yet the sour stench of bourbon and tobacco lingered in the room. As if it had been the angel of death, and she in her last plague, its sickening scent seeped through the walls and encased her. Slender fingers seized her throat. Tight—it was too tight—she couldn't breathe; the air too thick. Her lungs flooded with toxins; chest contracted and brought forth a feeble wheeze.

Her body violently shook as the all-too-familiar memories of previous nights consumed her. Shaky hands covered her ears in an attempt to temporarily deafen herself of the low grunts that neared her door.