Doors Logs

There was a heavy heat lying next to him in sheets that were bleached and starched to a papercrisp discomfort. In the light of streetlamps lining the off-road that had led the guilty pair to their destination, Trystan had lit a cigarette after offering one in vain -- the embers illuminating his ghastly face to an orange the colour of sin.

It felt, at first, like too much tobacco did -- back in the old days when he inhaled too fast and didn't know any better. But that was impossible, and after a cigarette more and vertigo's refusal to subside, he rolled over, pressing skeletal fingers into the man's fleshy, gluttonous side.

A hitch in his voice allowed it more severity than usual.

"Get out."

It was met with confusion, a superseding argument, and money (twenty too little) thrown onto that dirty bed. His head crashed to the pillow just as soon as the door slammed shut, and in the spinning and displacement of this sudden onset of dysphoria he breathed

only breathed.