Drunk and disorderly, he staggers out on the decaying front porch, black combat boots thudding against the brown unvarnished wooden planks. He gazes up at the autumn sky, the white clouds rolling across the rare glimpses of blue, and deftly rolls himself a fag. His silver coloured Zippo lighter clicks sharply as he opens it, and flicks the grey wheel, stroking it gently against the red flint, and then snapping the lid shut. He inhales, breathing bluish grey poison into his lungs and lightly leans against the wobbling barrier, for fear of plunging into the green overgrown lawn below. He reflects on the jumbled half pissed images of the night before. Fractured pictures of laughter, flirtation, and steady drinking. Then he recalls how he sat suddenly alone at a table in the corner, drinking and smoking fag after solitary fag, watching the beer ion his pint glass descend with each eager sip. He hears her slurring laughter and the muffled strains of her voice busting through the static of the chattering crowd. He feels she is sparing not a thought on him, as the joy flee his body, leaving but a vacant breathing shell devoid of all emotion, as he watches the strands of smoke float from his lips with each angry drag. Till he feels the draining weight of his lonesome soul wearing him down as he lifts the cigarette to his mouth, picturing his hand holding a serrated blade and a hundred jagged edges kissing his flesh as he saws down the length of his arm. The red drops pattering on the floor, painting gruesome watercolors on the white tiled canvas. He angrily flicks the fag into the rain sodden yard, and stalks back into the house. He lies down on the leather covered lounge to selfishly reflect on his depression and his attempts at self medication. He promptly falls asleep, dreaming of rage and rejection, silence, and finally oblivion.

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