Dying Life

The sky was grey and it shown over the grey city. The light itself almost seemed grey as rain threatened to pour down on the rundown buildings. Bill Kingsly frowned at the sky as he stumbled into an alley. His clothes were dirty, and splattered with mud. His pants were ripped and ravaged. The right leg was threatening to fall off and expose his yellow skin. He tripped on a pile of trash and fell into a brick wall. He growled as he felt pain emit from a fresh scrape on his arm. He tried to steady himself, but with no luck. He continued to stumble until he stumbled into an open doorway. The door led to a dimly lit hallway. There was a single light and it flickered on and off. When it flicked on, many layers of stains were visible on the walls. Bill stumbled into the hall and pressed his hands against the grimy wall to steady himself. Abruptly, he fell heavily to his knees and he coughed and heaved. Brown matter went from his mouth and met the browning concrete. He vomited again, before turning his reddened eyes forward. He was almost to the door. He pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and took a step. He slipped in his own vomit and landed hard on the ground. He yelled an agitated “AH!” before half-dragging himself, half-crawling to the door.

“HELLO?” he yelled, but his voice was swallowed by his own saliva. The only sound he made sounded like a gurgle.

He cleared his throat, ready to yell again, but he didn’t. Instead he lay down with his right cheek on the dirty floor. He tried to slow his breathing; if he breathed too hard, dirt would enter his lungs and he would cough. He listened for a sound, but all he could hear was the wind picking up outside. He propped himself up and slowly got to his feet. He leaned against the door; he’d made it. He took his right hand and pounded on the steel. He began to breath faster with the struggle it was to stay standing. There was no sign that the door would open, and Bill growled. He swirled his tongue in his mouth and spit out brown saliva. Suddenly, the door opened and Bill looked inside. All he saw was darkness, but soon he was greeted by smoke. He stumbled in and once through the doorway, his legs gave out.

“Gimme tha stuff,” he mumbled to the darkness.

The door shut, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the man. The man took a step towards Bill, but said nothing. He stared down at him on the floor. Bill flung himself around the man’s ankles.

He cried, “Please! Please! Gimme some o’ that sweet death! Ease tha feelin’, so tha I can feel alive! Really, alive! Please!”

The man crouched down and in a low voice said, “This is your last time. One more blow after this and you will cough up blood until you die. Of course, that will happen to you anyway. I promise you that you won’t live a year.”

The man produced a small baggie and handed it to Bill. Hungrily he ripped it open and took out a long black stick. He fumbled in his pockets until he found his old black lighter. He flicked it on and a flame appeared, dancing before him. He put the black stick into the flame and watched it light up. Quickly he blew out the light and placed it back in his pocket. He plunged the stick into his mouth and took a deep breath in. He could feel himself relaxing. He exhaled and took another breath. He felt his pain ease away, as he was enveloped in the warmth of the smoke. He began to chuckle as he felt the effects deepen. He looked back at the man who had delivered this life, yet promised Bill death. Bill wondered when the man would kick him out and tell him that he was dirty and worthless. A small bit of silence went by, only disrupted by the sound of Bill inhaling and exhaling.

“Come, sit down,” the man invited.

Bill stood up and walked to the sound of his voice. He didn’t have a single problem walking now. He had been on the brink of death, but now he was alive.