A drabble of cancer death and bad habits.
Italicized sections represent memories.
The source of his Dependence
X
Constantine lay on the beach looking up at the overcast sky: navy, grey and white. His dark hair moved slightly in the wind that came up from the sea. Sand brushed against the inevitable black and white of his suit. This beach is almost forgotten by the city's people, a little stretch of sand wedged between industrial sites, always deserted, peaceful.
In the distance the sound of tide against the sand, his eyes are following a single gull that floats over the green water of the bay, with wings out stretched and taught the bird hangs in the updraft's of air, brought by the coming storm. Constantine closes his eyes.
"Squamous carcinomas…" The doctor pursed her lips and continued to explain. "Lung cancer."
"Why me?"
Gabrielle smiled sweetly and gave him the practical answer, so similar to the doctor's answer: smoking.
Constantine languidly lifted his outstretched arm out of the sand, brought the cigarette to his lips and breathed in the ugly smoke. He coughed almost reflexively, and then when the fit had past, let his arm drop on to his chest.
"We believe this is treatable, but not operable, chemotherapy will be the prescribed treatment, and you will receive a course of doses over several weeks." The oncologist had seemed to be a kind man. Kind enough to continue to describe his type of cancer, and the percentages associated with its treatment. Treatable, not curable, the doctor was also careful with his words.
His eyes filed back to the gull, poised with wings arched and head bent down, black eyes trained on the water, the bird was hunting.
"You should probably quite smoking." Chas shifty eyed after the second oncologists appointment.
A tendril of smoke drifts up from where his hands rest against his chest.
Why anyone really?
Why this? He holds his cigarette up for closer inspection. Why not? Everyone he knew had a crutch, Hennessy his alcohol, Beeman his books, even Chas… wait what did Chas have? What was the kid's habit? He read too many books like Beeman, but they weren't his escape- Constantine realized he wasn't sure.
The cigarette had burnt down, almost to a butt. In the distance rain was falling over the water, and the gull had moved on.
"Constantine, come on it's going to rain." Chas stood by the taxi calling down to the beach.
Constantine didn't move, ignoring his apprentice, trying to absorb one last moment of peace.
"John!" the horn blared for a moment.
Reluctantly John pulled himself up and struggled up the path from the beach.
Chas leaned across from the driver's seat opening the door, as John flicked his cigarette butt away.