Getting on the wagon!

The sun was a golden yellow peeping out of the horizon. There was promise of a sunny day. The July chill had spilled onto August. Today could be an exception. Not that any of that mattered to Tusk, his head was pounding, his tongue he felt was stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat ached. The pits of his stomach felt like someone had dropped hot lead on them. He swung his legs out of bed with a groan. What was the use of lying in bed yet he had been awake from four a.m. in the morning? He just could not sleep anymore. If he managed three hours a night he was thankful. He reached for a pack of cigarettes on his bedside table, with overwhelming nausea and blurred vision he knocked down his bedside reading lamp. The resounding crash tore into his brain, amplified by the debilitating effects of overindulging.

Recovering from the jolt of pain, he grabbed the cigarette pack. A single stick remained. Sighing with relief, he scanned the room searching for his pants on the littered floor. Then it hit him, he still had them on. Rummaging through his front pockets, he found it. His prized gold encrusted lighter. Shoving the cigarette with effort into his mouth, he flicked the lighter, the flame flickering because of his trembling hands, he finally had his cigarette lit. He started sucking into it like his life depended on it. After several puffs, the fog in his head started to clear. At least now, he could see through the haze that engulfed his world. On his hand, he became fixated on the lighter. How he prized and how hated it. He prized it because of its value and hated it because it reminded him of what he used be. It was the one thing that he truly and deeply cared for. And not because of its monetary value, he had all through his life shown disregard for anything fiscal. Money to Tusk was just a means, not an end.