The Pusher

My 93-word contribution to Friday Fictioneers is a bit bleak this a.m. It reminds me of the way our rental house looked after the first renters moved out – I kid you not. Many people thought they were running a meth lab. Instead, one woman had become addicted to pain meds and begun chain smoking in the living room, coating all the interior walls with nicotine. To no avail, her partner tried to cover it up but broke into tears as we walked through the ruins. In the end, we sealed the walls with varnish to get rid of the odor. Enough said. Thanks to Ted Strutz for the photo and to the lovely Rochelle for posting it.

Come to me, run to me
This is my lair
Full of promises, at first
Flowers Sunshine Laughter
and Dreams

Soon I will not need to ask
You will beg to come
The smell of the smoke
The draw of the needle
The hiss of happiness in your veins

Others will join us
Pretty ones, sad ones
Young ones
Monsters

But then we all become monsters
In the end
Do we not?

Our lives rust
and break
Our dreams turn to
nightmares
Our bodies scream
No More!

Still, we come