Chapter Text
Smoking doesn’t help. My hands just won’t stop shaking. I’m not sure if they ever will. Maybe I’m going crazy after all. Maybe all this shit is finally getting to me. And it won’t go away. It will never go away. My hands keep shaking, and I’m scared I might drop this cigarette and set fire to the bed. What a fucking shitty way to die – burning to ashes in a whore’s bedroom. I hate myself. I hate myself for what I’m doing to people. For what I’m doing to myself. I wasn’t always like this, or maybe I was, but I never knew. I know now.
The smokes don’t help. I keep telling myself I’ll quit. Today. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Or maybe never because, fuck, it doesn’t matter. I could be dead tomorrow. Or next week. Or the week after that, and it wouldn’t matter either. No one gives a shit about my life, least of all me. Javier Peña. Bachelor. Means I won’t be leaving a grieving widow behind. No kids either. That I know of. Well, don’t call me irresponsible just yet. I use protection. That doesn’t mean it can’t happen.
Smoking doesn’t help. It gets me through the day, gives me something to do, but in the end, the smoke makes me sick to my stomach. I hate the stale taste on my tongue, hate the yellow marks on my fingers, hate the dry cough in the mornings. I don’t crave for my smokes. They’re just a bad habit, one that is hard to shake because it's part of me. I’ve smoked for three decades now. First one when I was twelve. Stole pops‘ pack and snuck behind the barn. Nearly choked on it. Still, I did it again to impress a girl. It worked, and that was that. It still works. I light up confidently and let my mouth do the job: smile, pout, smirk. I can do wicked. And sensual. Or both. I take long drags and exhale with a bit of a moan. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I‘ll stick out my tongue to wet my lips. Works every time. Well, going commando does too. I don’t leave much to the imagination. I don’t disappoint either. Apart from that, the smoking doesn’t help me at all.
My last health check was a fucking disaster. I've fucked up my lungs, and I've fucked up my heart. I've even managed to fuck up my stomach by giving myself an ulcer. Not that any of that matters. As I said, I could be dead tomorrow. Or next week. Or the week after that. It doesn’t matter how I go. I’ll probably take a bullet to the brain. That’ll put me out of it. I think I’d like that. In any case, I’d like it better than the other options. Torture freaks me out – it’s nothing unlikely though. I could die a slow and painful death. Fuck, I hate the idea. My hands are still shaking. I almost killed a kid today. Kid almost killed me, too. I should have got him, but I couldn’t. I guess I’m not cut out for this shit. It’s getting to me. I sometimes wake up shaking, grabbing for my smokes and lighting up before I even sit up in bed. The smoking doesn’t help the shaking, and still I don’t stop. I just keep going. And sometimes I don't even know why I do.