Fire fly.
"I suppose. What does it matter?" The question was too complicated and he was too wasted to think. The only way to escape his abysmal thoughts was through drugs, through toxins that couldn't escape his body until they destroyed his body. His brain is almost empty and numb, but it could always be more void. He pricks his skin, jabs the needles deep into his muscles or veins and - suddenly - he is seeing rainbows on the moon made of honey.
The world was a waste, the world was hard to understand. The world was blind. The world was built on corpses.
"Maybe it doesn't matter. You know, it's your choice," he replied, not really paying attention to the conversation. He stared at the roaches squished on the wall and the gentle glow from the TV kissed the side of his infected face. The air was thick with a restless humming from the A.C and the talkies on TV were softly speaking nonsense behind them. He was going to die soon, he was sure of it. All these drugs, all these pills, chemicals, crushed and grown, were going to see him to the end.
His partner kissed his dying lips and said "I'm going to bed. Later." He watched him walk away and said, in between coughs of blood, "later." Was this true love ? He wasn't sure. He almost couldn't recall the name of the familiar lover. When you're this deep in drugs, everything becomes a copy of a copy, a face without a name, a spectre in a world you lost contact with.
Oh. He was losing consciousness. The lights grew dimmer, the sound became silent and the taste of bile and blood was dissipating into blandness. Number still, he felt the cold rough hand of death squeeze around his neck. He couldn't breathe and he felt his skin become paler as the temperature dropped. His eyes gently rolled back and his heart stopped.
Was this the meaning of life? You live your life without connection, without anyone really understanding you, loving people who you always forget, only to die alone and numb among the dead bugs and trash you leave behind. Nobody will remember him. Nobody will be there at his burial. Nobody will put flowers down.
Nobody.
