a/n: "Old soldiers don't die, Hank. They just fade away…"
Felt like trying out a new writing style and somehow came up with this. I'm not entirely sure if I like it or not, but it doesn't change the fact that I might have a serious inability to write cheerful things. How else can I explain this? At any rate, hope no one beat me to the punch.
Smoking kills.
-x-
It started with a cough-one of those nonthreatening symptoms, something attached to common illnesses and then easily brushed away. It had been a rough cold season, and he wasn't in the best shape anymore. If not a cold, then it was just a smoker's cough; his body's feeble protest against his addiction. An ineffective campaign if he had ever seen one.
It was habit to light up a new cig. He would roll it thoughtfully around his mouth, inhale, and simply stifle the irritation. If it couldn't be avoided, he would just hold the cigarette in one hand and cough into the other until he had calmed down enough to fit it back into its rightful place, dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth.
He would prop his feet up on the coffee table and put his hands behind his head, the picture of relaxation as he watched smoke rise to the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was getting old, and with it came a fatigue that made him wonder why he was still sitting in Resurgam instead of retired with that rustic clinic. Sometimes he'd close his eyes and imagine that distant life, and he'd almost be able to see it all-
-and then he'd choke on the air in his lungs, gasping as the illusion was shattered and he returned back to his current, harsh reality.
Then there was the breathlessness.
Dsypnea: a symptom meriting more concern than a simple, dry cough. He saw a lot of patients who complained of it with diseases running from the heart to the thyroid. It didn't narrow anything down, and as serious as it may or may not have been, it was just as easy to brush off as his now-chronic cough.
He would just light another up, chew gently on the end, inhale, stifle the irritation, and make sure he could catch his breath again after he exhaled. It didn't interfere too badly with his daily routine, and if something had been legitimately wrong, it would have kept him from continuing like normal. That logic carried him through the next few months.
Then was the pain, dull and persistent, an oppressive cloud tight in his chest.
The diagnostician in him recognized that things were serious, and he'd sit pensively with his feet planted firmly on the ground, eyes wide open as he stared off into the unassuming distance. He would recognize that there was something wrong, and he'd even muse on diagnosing himself, but the human inside held him back with an apprehensive fear.
He was not an easily frightened man. He spent most of his free time on top of a building which he had once walked off and stood unflinchingly, more than once, in front of armed men threatening to shoot him, but the fragile human beneath the surface with its cautious nature could detect that this, whatever it was, had the potential to be worse than falling off the edge or taking a bullet. Perhaps it was great enough to merit being the most afraid he had ever been in his life.
It was time for another cigarette. He would hold the end tightly in his jaw, inhale, stifle the irritation, make sure he could catch his breath upon exhaling, and ignore the ache right beneath the surface.
Last was the blood, the final nail in the coffin of the idea that everything was perfect, or at least normal and manageable. There was nothing mysterious in the x-rays, no unexpected shading that hinted at powerful viruses or new and exotic diseases. All he would find were the shadows he had always secretly known about, the consequences of an unhealthy lifestyle.
He would throw the file in the bottom drawer of his desk where it would lie undisturbed, and not even he would bother it.
Finally, he would light a new cigarette, take a deep breath, and wait until he could fade away…
-fin