Cold
A One-Shot Something or Other
He never dreamed it would come to this.
High-rolling, unstoppable, on top of the world.
Remy LeBeau.
The prince of Bourbon Street, the resident urban legend of the bayou.
That was a past life, the one that had ended only minutes earlier. He was just a ghost now. A spectre of the man who had left his palace without a care in the world only hours ago. He knew this day would eventually arrive, but he was not nearly ready. He had started preparing only days ago.
His life was full of women, laughter, booze, and cards. But there was something else, something always lingering on the outskirts of his perfectly fulfilled existence. He did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on short skirts, smoky eyes, whiskey bottles, and poker faces.
But powder is hard to ignore as it stings your nostrils.
And pills are harder to ignore as they scrape the back of your throat.
And needles are the hardest to ignore as they pierce your soft skin, releasing poison into your delicate veins.
If anyone had asked him about the drugs, he would direct them to Francois, maybe Aimee. They knew everything about pills and powder and needles. He was casual, a pop here and a hit there. You wanted to talk cards you talked to him. You wanted to talk drugs, you talked to them.
That was the way things were. Up until minutes ago.
One-thirty-seven.
One-thirty-seven, bathrooms, bodies, and a world that would not slow down.
One-forty-three.
One-forty-three, camera flashes, coroners, and a world that moved too fast to make sense.
One-fifty-one.
One-fifty-one, pills, powder, needles, and a world that crashed around his ears.
His old best friend, his old girlfriend, his old brother, his old princess.
His brand new cadavers. His shiny new phantoms.
His sudden biting conscience. His sudden cynicism and lack of caring.
Cold.
Cold bodies, cold bathroom tiles, cold emotions.
Cold bourbon against his warm throat
Cold metal against his neck on a warm night.
Only later would he realize they were swords. Only later would he realize he didn't care.
There were no pills or powders or needles in prison.
There were only ghosts and cynicism and cold.
It was always so cold.
It reminded him of home.
The End
---x
Author's Note:
Gee, well that was certainly depressing. At least, I think it was. I'm not really sure why I wrote this, why I posted it here, or where it came from. I'm not even sure if I like it. Any feedback is appreciated. We'll see what happens. Also, if you're reading any of my other work, I'm sorry for the lack of updates. Writer's block, nice weather, and renovations means that I'm not exactly focused. Please forgive me and hang tight. Thanks. –Viviene.