A cold dark cellar. Cut off from the outside world. Ash sat cross-legged on the cement floor of the unfinished basement. A dirty mattress and wrinkled clothes crammed into a corner kept him company. He smoked the substance, holding it in his lungs as long as he could. This wasn’t your hippy-dippy shit, this was pure white magic. Toke after toke, the smoke permeated every pore and synapse. The initial buzz was gone, what was left was a yearning that had to be satisfied. At the price of his friends, his family, his job; all worthy sacrifices. Ash fidgeted with his phone and saw his face reflected back on the screen. Dark bags under his eyes, hair tussled and dirty, a mouth sprinkled with sores. The outsiders, the ground people don’t understand. The world is bleak and stupid, full of pointless games and assholes. Ash hit the pipe again and set it aside. Lives varnished with possessions and fake relationships and bullshit. He sprang up off the floor, stretching out his limbs. The phone hit the cement, the screen cracked. Ash tilted his head up and screamed, not out of pain, but acceptance. A dark cracked dweller in his cold dark cellar.
This is my entry for Fox Tales Week #6.