Smoke in the snowfall

He stood on the sidewalk, a hand in his pocket, smoking a cigarette with nothing to shield him from the cold but a thin, black button down shirt. A random passerby may have mistaken him for the angel of death, dressed all in black, dark, spiky hair and face as pale as the snow that had fallen around him. He didn’t shiver from the cold, but his hand shook the slightest little bit as he brought the cigarette to his mouth again. He knew, no matter how long he stood there, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked, he wasn’t going to shake the feeling of fear that sat in his stomach like a two ton rock anytime soon. Shortly after this realization he puked.

He didn’t know how long he had stood there, smoking Marlboro after Marlboro, trying to get his head on straight, but at some point, he must have decided to walk. He ended up in a dingy bathroom with one of those buzzing fluorescent lights that wouldn’t stop flickering, in some bar far from the main party scene. The cold water was running and he splashed his face with water three times before he noticed the flecks of blood on his hands. Her blood. He puked again. As he scrubbed his hands and fought his body’s urge to dry heave, he wondered if anyone had seen him standing there in the snow, puking? If they had, did they notice the blood?

He looked at his face in the mirror. Any of the “boyish cuteness” she had loved so much about him was gone now. His eyes were bloodshot and looked like they were going to bulge out of his head. His skin had lost so much color he thought he may be able to trace the veins through the thin mask. Haggard didn’t begin to cover the way he looked right now, or the feelings running through his body. Everyone had always said he was “cool, calm and collected” even at the worst of times, he figured that had gotten him this far tonight, but he had a feeling that wasn’t going to last long.