Pat's shoulder hit the stairwell wall as he slunk down to the basement. His eighteenth birthday and all he wanted was a moment to himself. His gut contracted and tightened. Just one hit they said. Just one hit. He could hear his friends upstairs jump around and laugh. At least they were having a good time. Pat went into his bedroom; something pulled him to the dresser drawer. His hands glided over his socks, his shirts, his jeans. He held up the ‘I Heart NY’ shirt and smiled at the memory. He heard more laughing, this time able to make out who was who. Nausea dissipated as a warm glow spread out from his stomach. Eyes closed, he smacked himself, right dab in-between the eyes. His jaw dropped, the euphoria had now spread even to his toes. He looked up at the white stucco ceiling thinking of all the people upstairs. Tom, Sue, Corey, Brandy. Just one hit they said. He grinned, opened his eyes and ran for the stairs.
This is my entry for Fox Tales Week #4.