#Chapter117
I didn't smoke, but as I sat out in the cold, all I could think was that I really, really needed a cigarette.
I needed a shower, a cigarette and perhaps even a fucking priest.
I needed . . . I needed to clear my mind. The cold helped. It attacked me, sweeping over me like a thousand needle-like teeth that rode the wind's back. They assaulted my cheeks like sharks that were lost to a blood frenzy. They stung, begging to be let back into the warmth.
I refused. My ass remained seated on the small patio chair that was mostly dry, as it had been kept beneath the roof lip of the back garden.
It was cold, but rather than shy away, all I could do was gulp that shit down, praying that it would fix whatever the fuck was wrong with me.
