The Fast

He looks at it for a while when it is passed on to him. He can relate to the smoldering paper, dying a quick death. The thick mush of smoke that is witness to this short-lived existence. He brings it to his mouth, and breathes in as hard and as long as he can. The smoke fills his lungs, and he tries to keep it there; a tear trickles down his left eye. He needs the smoke to find the nesting place it needed in his lungs. In a bout of coughing, he loses it all. It dissipates with the thicker mush. He does, however, note that the colors are different, as they merge.

...

He swims deep beneath rolling waves. He is lost in the labyrinths of coral caves. He is also hunted by the echo of the distant times. In his case it isn't just a singular echo. He is the tyrant, the abused. He is what is, and what will ever be. He is beyond all his quantified failures, but also beyond reprieve. He is both master and slave. His focus drifts to the music. He grabs on to his favorite note. Holds on to it for dear life. The note plays on repeat in his head. The song moves on. He has finally held on to something.

...

His pants are unzipped. He looks around and he is castled in white marble. He looks down, and he sees the commode. He is in the toilet. He closes his eyes to get his bearings. He can hear Jimi violently strumming his guitar. Yes, it's a jam. A jam back at the house. He wants to be in his house. He wants to be at Woodstock. He needs to be among the few who never made it out. He wants to be the rain that nearly ruined everything. He comes back to the moment. Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. No towel. His friend's mother's bath robe would do. Shirt tucked in. Belt buckled. He walks out.

...

He passes it along again. The symmetry maintained. Like the two-part circus. Puff. Puff. Pass. He looks at her now, and he can hear the cracks in the perfect facade. She's wearing too much makeup. Her perfume suddenly suffocates him. The jasmine smell is a thick cloud of Nitrogen around him. Chilled to the bone. He needs to get out.

"Where are they?"

"They're looking for the toad."

"The toad?"

"Yes, it jumped off the marble slab, and into the rose bushes."

"Should I go help them?"

"They'll be back soon. They've already uprooted most of the bushes."

"Yeah, I guess it can't hide for much longer."

...

He mind drifts back to the note. The realization that he let it slip away. Again. It's all sand. It's all getting out now. He needs to let it all out. He needs to throw up. He tries to get up. His knees buckle. He grabs on the waste basket. Kneeling into it, he let's it all go. Wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His mouth tastes of vomit. He collapses back on to the futon. His insides hurt. He needs to prepare for the Chem ATP. What was supposed to happen to the litmus paper? How do you control the production of ammonia? How is she preparing for the exam right now? What is she wearing right now. This was a bad idea.

...

His throat is dry. He can feel cracks opening up. He will never be able to talk again. They will find him. They will take him. When they take him, he won't be able to call for help. Who would he call for help. Behind the cap of music, he can hear something. A distant call for prayer. It keeps knocking down his silent wails. He can even make out the words.

Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar

Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar

...

He needs a drink of water before it's too late. There are bodies scattered about him on the futon. Deep, oblivious slumber. The human stench overpowers him for a moment. He is almost thrown off balance with an urge to hurl. He already did that. He manages to get up. He looks around in the illuminated darkness. The bottle in the corner of the room. He uncorks it. He takes in a large gulp. He needs to quench his thirst once and for all. The dry gin burns up everything inside him. He feels it ripping through. It is his Barium meal. The Barium meal you could feel, but not see. It's not a Barium meal at all. It is his last meal. Supper. He collapses.

...

Slowly, his eyes creak open. Like the back door to the havaili. His head feels heavier then usual. His clothes stick to his body. He can't feel his arm. Slowly he flips around. He can feel a million needles sticking into his arm. He likes it. He feels alive. Taking support from the wall, he slowly gets up. His legs don't give way. They are good legs. They are true to him. He thinks of the old man. He thinks of his sea. Cursing his left arm for not being as true as his right arm. A smile works its way across his face. He walks up the stairs.

...

"Sleeping Beauty finally got up! Come on, we got breakfast from Niazi's."

"You guys go on ahead...I'm fasting..."