Real short read

[speedingwriter]

He got up and shut the door once the dog had left then sat back down at the computer and picked up the joint he was rolling.

He wondered what sort of damage he had caused his body earlier by smoking an amphetamine type chemical off pieces of tin foil. His chest felt tight, tighter at the thought of what he had done and what might happen.

He tucked the paper edge of the cigarette paper behind the cone of green-flecked tobacco. Licked the strip of gum. He felt terrible. He hoped this would help calm him down. He stubbornly ignored any thought which suggested using yet one more drug on top of the existing meal of chemicals he'd consumed already that day was a bad idea. His hands shook as he tried to tightly seal the joint. He couldn't keep his feet and legs still, and his jaw was clenched very firmly. He thought he must be paying the price for feeling good earlier that day. He felt very bad and the joint was not very well rolled because of his shaking hands.

He had taken 4 sedatives in the hope that they would calm him down. He was prescribed 4 a day to keep him from getting ill from not taking them. He thought he would need more than 4 to calm himself right now. But he was only prescribed four of the tablets a day; for no reason was he to take more than the prescribed daily dose, the doctor had been quite firm.

His hands sweated and his bowels contracted weakly. He stayed put, listening to songs on his computer, trying to predict the sum of adding the joint to his current unease. He thought again of the pills in the other room. He tried to pick songs that held positive emotional associations with him. He played mostly old songs.

He tapped the joint on the table like actors do in film noir movies before lighting up. He had felt very positive earlier, he had enjoyed himself for an hour. He lit the joint and wondered if he would die soon. He got low and took risks with his health. He thought most people who did this were tough types, desperadoes. He thought they probably didn't secretly worry themselves to distraction all the time.

He smoked and he listened to the old music and he felt sad.

[speedingwriter]

Another waste of cyber-space:

He wrote all the time now that he had nobody to talk to. He might have spent his time watching TV or playing video games, but he found that sometimes the only thing that helped calm him was to write; preferably over instant-messaging with a real person, but if nobody was available as was usually the case, he would sit and type to himself.

He wondered if he would write all the time if he wasn't so confused, mentally. He was uncomfortable just being, and writing was like a valve that released a bit of turmoil each time it was given a turn. At some level, he was afraid he would die quite soon, a worry which felt entirely justified to him.

His physical health, from the outside certainly, and from the inside more and more, was very bad. His heart was doing odd things, his stomach was grinding tightly one second then flopping about like a fat epileptic the next, his muscles shook and twisted whilst his palms sweat making the keyboard sticky and hard to use. His legs would not keep still, which would not have been a problem had they not begun to exhaust their puny muscles to the point where they hurt him constantly.

Sometimes it would take a long time to write something out. Some feelings were harder to expel by typing them out than others. Some were a little easier to grapple with, and when on occasion he would shift gear and begin to type as quickly as he could think, he felt a happiness in his chest as his heart began to slow and his chest weaken its grip just for a few lovely seconds whilst his mind was focussed attentively on one task to the exclusion of all the nasty intrusive feelings, impatiently waiting to be let back in.

If he finished writing and felt that what he'd said was coherent and didn't ramble about all over the place he might consider it of slightly higher value than the majority of his writings, which he immediately deleted, having served their purpose.

If it read anything at all like a story he'd wonder whether or not to consider it one. If the thought of calling something a short story didn't make him feel bad, he might call it one. If he was still relaxed about it a few minutes later, then he'd decide he was going to call it a short story. It was best then to forget about it forever, like a piece of gauze served its purpose and taken off to clinical waste.

[Darcy88]

He got up and shut the door once the dog had left then sat back down at the computer and picked up the joint he was rolling.

He wondered what sort of damage he had caused his body earlier by smoking an amphetamine type chemical off pieces of tin foil. His chest felt tight, tighter at the thought of what he had done and what might happen.

He tucked the paper edge of the cigarette paper behind the cone of green-flecked tobacco. Licked the strip of gum. He felt terrible. He hoped this would help calm him down. He stubbornly ignored any thought which suggested using yet one more drug on top of the existing meal of chemicals he'd consumed already that day was a bad idea. His hands shook as he tried to tightly seal the joint. He couldn't keep his feet and legs still, and his jaw was clenched very firmly. He thought he must be paying the price for feeling good earlier that day. He felt very bad and the joint was not very well rolled because of his shaking hands.

He had taken 4 sedatives in the hope that they would calm him down. He was prescribed 4 a day to keep him from getting ill from not taking them. He thought he would need more than 4 to calm himself right now. But he was only prescribed four of the tablets a day; for no reason was he to take more than the prescribed daily dose, the doctor had been quite firm.

His hands sweated and his bowels contracted weakly. He stayed put, listening to songs on his computer, trying to predict the sum of adding the joint to his current unease. He thought again of the pills in the other room. He tried to pick songs that held positive emotional associations with him. He played mostly old songs.

He tapped the joint on the table like actors do in film noir movies before lighting up. He had felt very positive earlier, he had enjoyed himself for an hour. He lit the joint and wondered if he would die soon. He got low and took risks with his health. He thought most people who did this were tough types, desperadoes. He thought they probably didn't secretly worry themselves to distraction all the time.

He smoked and he listened to the old music and he felt sad.

I like this. Very relatable. Nicely written. Thank you for sharing.