METANOIA

CIGARETTE

A barely smoked box of American Spirits sat on the corner of the sink with a lighter placed conveniently on top of it.

Barry reached for one and stuck it between his lips, and lit it. The lighter was tampered with somehow as the flame was much larger than he expected and singed his eyebrows. He still didn't like the taste of a cigarette, but now, it was more bearable, and he didn't cough.

The hallucinogenic mushrooms he ingested on the pizza had joined the ensemble of drugs in his system. The concoction was irreversibly frying his mind as the hairs on his thighs looked like the waves of the ocean, waving gently, as was his perception. He blew smoke over his thigh to make them dance lightly.

He looked up and saw Buddy and Lucy were gone, at least for the moment. They had vanished as fast as they came. But Barry could tell some irreparable damage was being done to his mind. It wasn't just the drugs. His psyche was in ruins as well.

He felt relief in solitude. Perhaps for the first time tonight, alone, he let go.

Barry was taking the most painful dump of his life. The alcohol, bike saddle, and the various drugs in his system had made the process excruciatingly painful. He winced and made a high pitched whine. He was taking short breaths to ease the pain. He gasped as the tangy butt nuggets left his sphincter, and he looked down as the splash of water hit the back of his thighs.

The hairs on his legs waved gently. Now, they looked to him like ginger blades of grass blowing in the wind. As the various hallucinogens distorted his perception, he ran his fingers over his broad thighs. The hairs he touched danced about like tiny inflatable tube men. He wanted to set them all ablaze.

Flames.

Something about their motion had always fascinated him. Though he never considered himself a pyromaniac or an arsonist, as far back as he can remember, he loved the way they danced. It was mesmerizing.

He pulled the cigarette from his lips and brought it close to his thigh. The hairs curled into tiny tumbleweeds that snapped off if he brought the cigarette close enough. He wanted to set this field on fire. Let all the tumbleweed loose.

He drew a circle on his leg, burning away the hairs without burning his flesh. The circle of barren flesh got larger and larger, and his skin turned pinkish from the heat. He took occasional short drags from the cigarette to keep it alive. Once there was nothing left in the area except tiny black tumbleweeds, he blew on them lightly to disperse them.

He looked at the large circle on his leg with pride. It was a work of art. He wished Melinda could have seen it. Through destruction and flames, he had made something beautiful. It was so large he could fit his fist in the bare area on his massive thigh. His skin was pink from the heat. The cigarette was nearly out. He tossed the butt in the sink and lit another.

This time, he brought the cigarette to the middle of the circle. Closer, then closer, until the burning amber tip of its paper dick touched his flesh. A charcoal like smell, mixed with the sulfurous stench of the burning hair, flowed in from his nostrils. Technically speaking, he was breathing himself in. The smell was overwhelming, but the pain was negligible. The various drugs in his system had woven him an armor against physical pain. The dump he took hurt a hell of a lot worse.

Melinda's words echoed in his hollow mind. "Creative process requires self-destruction."

A single plume of smoke wafted up from his thigh with its overwhelming aroma as the branding on his leg expanded. He looked at it. It looked foul but was a decent little circle. Then he started carving away a larger circle outside of it; the smaller one being him, and the larger one his world stranded in the middle of the ominous ruin they had caused, reflected by the burned patch of hair.

Barry wanted the world to burn. He wanted to strip himself of the shackles of morality that had only brought him pain. No more Mr. Nice Guy, he muttered.

It was a clean wipe, except for a slight smear of blood. At least that was the first thing in his life that went right.

He pulled his shorts up, and they stuck to his bleeding thigh. He felt no pain; it didn't matter. He pocketed the lighter and the rest of the cigarettes. He felt like he was going to pick up smoking for a while.

He stumbled to the front door. On his way, he made a pit stop to grab a handful from the various pills Taylor had in a bowl beside her bed. It was mostly LSD, some Ecstasy, opiates, meth, amphetamines, and tiny deodorant sample containers of MDMA. Her stash was legendary. Her dealer was infatuated with her. She never objected.

He felt slightly guilty about his petty theft and thought he should at least let her know he was leaving. He doubted Taylor was keeping track of her stash. She wasn't.

"Hey, I'm gonna go," he whispered.

Taylor raised her head drowsily.

"Oh, okay." Then she grimaced at the smell.

"Do you smell something burning?"

"Nope," Barry said.

"Oh, okay," She repeated as she fell back to sleep.

Barry closed the door behind him and stole into the night.