Ink Inhalation

Pen between his pointer and middle fingers, he raised it to his lips, pretending he was inhaling the deep rich ink. Exhaling, he imagined the smooth, fresh curves of ink in the air, spiraling silent visionaries. In his lungs he felt the smoke, the delicious, nourishing ache, and my God, fire! Flickering flames whipped in his own body, devouring his organs! Burning.
    Startled, he flung the pen aside. It clattered among the papers and notebooks on the wooden floor, echoing. The fire, all his fault. He recalled the smoke, thicker than creamy cake icing, a sharp taste he had fancied for so long- until that night. Oh, the carelessness, the need for a grey breath and dark air; he wanted it more than anything- he had to have it.
    The worst of all was his undeniable humanity. How imperfect he was! Once he had though, in his smokey cloud, that the low burn of the cigarette poison made him perfect and whole. All else was bound to fail. But it had failed him, the pedestal diminished to ashes, along with the couch, the quaint bedside table, the house, the children-
    Rubbing his eyes, his heart strained for an excuse, a consolation... but the bank was emtp, sympathy run dry. Mind speeding, he breathed the morbidly clean air, and smiled desolately.
    The truth of it was, he thought, that he had been so drowsy, and bitter too, that he selfishly craved the tar, and had lit up a cigarette. Sleep. His body demanded it, for forcefully than it had shouted for smoke- and it took him. He drifted merrily on his filthy black lake, slipping along into unconsciousness.
    But fire, he grimaced, never slept. The crackling, glowing beast always starved, screamed, and sighed for more wood to burn, cigarettes to burn, lives to eat away at, leaving only dust. But what does fire want with dust? Nothing. It thinks not of what will result, but of its own sick greed!
    Yes, he had been greedy. Who hadn't been? Certainly his wife had been greedy, always wanting to cook her meas, only desiring taste. And the children, oh they were the worst of all (aside from himself). They were drunk with innocent greed, and they had battled foolishly for Daddy's attention. Their greed was born from fire, for they descended from fire. He was it, and it was him; so hopelessly entwined in hate and bitterness and sweet, cloudy passion-
     Hesitantly he flicked the lighter on, and greeted his two closest friends- the flame and the cigarette. Inhaling with relish, he shut his eyes, savoring the toxins. And, grinning, he threw his friends, now joined in matrimony, to the far side of the room, where they burned cheerfully. The fire was celebrating. It had discovered the slick trail of gasoline, and blossomed into a roar. The fire smile and danced, and so did he- they were a singular being.
    Without much else to do, he sat cross-legged in the eye of the firestorm. As the charcoal sent filled his throat, he thought to himself that perhaps- just perhaps- this was what he had planned all along.