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It was a typical Monday evening, cold and barren in the closing times of Greggs. Thomas had cleaned the establishment before clocking out, blinking groggily once the outside breeze hit him, thankful he wouldn’t have to stare into the artificial lights of the bakery anymore.
He reached into his pocket to pull out a lighter and a worn cigarette pack, opened it up to pull out a stick from the half empty container, and promptly lit it.
A couple of pathetic puffs left the end of the cigarette before Thomas took in a proper inhale.
Soon, the familiar bitterness filled his mouth once more, bringing about the relieving sting, which he yearned for ever since the start of his shift.
It made him feel alive in the monotony of his everyday life.
Wake up, eat, go to Greggs, come home, greet his wife, entertain her, eat, go to sleep.
It’s been like that without fail for the last 30 something years.
Thomas couldn’t help thinking his life had been a complete waste. He pushed the feeling down, detaching himself from reality if he had to, just so he wouldn’t spiral and break down.
He had been doing nothing his whole life. Life is supposed to be lived to the full, appreciated, and worshipped, I mean after all you only get one try at it, right?
He was too old to change anything at that point in life. And he knew that.
But it didn’t mean it stung less.
Thomas took another puff. Fighting fire with fire seemed to work out for him after all.
And then – like he had been possessed – he doubled over and wheezed.
His eyes widened as he couldn’t stop hacking. Did he accidentally inhale the cigarette? Did his smoking finally catch up to him?
The rabbit dropped to his knees, clutching his chest as he fought death with every passing second.
But for what? Would surviving even be worth it? Sure, dying by aspiration would be absolutely pathetic, but wasn’t his life already?
Isn’t it ironic that aspiration also means hope? Ambition? Something he so clearly lacked?
Perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing. Yet his survival instincts prevailed.
And then, to his shock, he started sputtering blood on the pavement.
And soon, small, rumpled, yet unmistakenly small purple flowers started hitting the ground, as if the blood was a red carpet, a cushion for the stars of the show.
And then Thomas knew.
He never stopped coughing, albeit a small smile graced his features. The first one in so long.
He knew what it was. He felt it in his lungs, his heart for the past 30 something years.
The gentle ache that was always present. An ache that could be cured, and yet never was.
A wound that a doctor could heal, yet render him a shell of his former self. A shell that wouldn’t remember the confusing, yet happiest moment of his life.
Even if it made him happier in the long run, he still wouldn’t recover all the years he lost.
The name of his sickness was at the tip of his tongue, something japanese, but he couldn’t have been bothered to remember then.
Thomas collapsed on his side, his coughs getting weaker and weaker. He felt as if his face would explode, and yet it wasn’t a terrible experience all in all.
He felt free, for the first time in a long time.
He wouldn’t have to work his shift the next morning. He wouldn’t be such a burden to his unhappy wife anymore.
Even if he died an insignificant member of society, something to be forgotten in the following year, and years beyond, he held on to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he made a certain purple rabbit happy, even if for a moment.
And once he soars high above the clouds, perhaps in time, he’d be joined by his true love.