A/N: This is me. Sorry that I haven't been updating The Old Hunt. Life had gotten in the way, and I have been thinking about rewriting it. I have been obsessed, for the last month and a bit by the fandom of the show House MD. Luckily nothing large enough for an actual story has popped into my head, but certainly a few drabbles have. So here we go.
Of Addiction
He played a game, a waiting game of suspense, of danger and of destruction.
Pull the trigger, empty
It was addictive, focus on the moment, not the consequence, the here, the now, the anticipation of the breaking point that was just within reach, but being unable to grasp that crucial point.
Pull the trigger again, empty
It was a solitary game, singular in the obsession of the moment, watching the faces around, but never being apart of the crowd, always apart, always watching, always tensed in eager anticipation for the other shoe to fall.
Pull the trigger thrice, empty
It didn't matter what else was happening, because the point of obsession, of addiction was always pressed lovingly, caressingly, a lover of cold steel and death and poppy and passion and blood and flame and pain and white chalky oblivion, burning with cold fire in the mind, driving out all other thoughts that might take control.
Pull the trigger four times, empty
It was a game of absolutes, there was no turning back, the result was certifiable, and expected. It was a moment of thrill, the last glimpse before the ground came rushing closer, a cool drink of poisoned water to a parched throat in the Sahara. A balm to ease the suffering, an aid to sleep. It was the anticipated end, the last rotation in a vicious cycle of load, fire, reload, fire, load, and spin fire.
Pull the trigger five times, a pentagram, and empty
It was certainty, in a life that had lost control, a promise of serenity, of absolution, and of void, beyond human reasoning and comprehension, a breath in the heat of the moment, the eye in the storm, the slow moments before the bullet strikes.
Pull the trigger six times, hit.