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Cigarette in hand, scotch on the rocks in the other.

Ceramic knife on the countertop. Lemons freshly cut, squeezed over the tracklines, rabbitholes in his right arm.

Shattered bottle in the corner. Remains of a rag, burning sensations licking at the doily, stinging on his injection sites.

A bead of sweat, rolling down his brow, his neck, his chest. He takes a drag. Another bead. He reaches behind him, a familiar wooden vestigial tail, finished and framed around steel.

He puts the gun in his mouth.