We pull a drag. Puff. Puff. We pass.
Our greedy little eyes are fixed on the little red bulb at the end of the joint, glowing, fading, glowing again; the joints grows shorter with each drag, going around in circles.
Just one more drag. I need it. I want it. Will it reach me?
Smoke fills my lungs, eyes bleed, the chemicals hit my body, entering my blood stream, delivering it to the brain. A slow smile spreads over me as I grow numb — happiness indeed.
Home.
“Why are your eyes red?” they ask their regular question.
“Just tired,” I mumble, my regular answer.
“Where were you?”
“Out.”
“With whom?”
“Just leave me alone!”
The door of my room bangs shut like the door of my life through which my parents will never enter.
Why can’t they just let me live?
“I want a bong, man. These joints just don’t cut it anymore.”
“Let’s make one. I have a bottle.”
“Yeah dude! That’s the spirit.”
We sit with an empty bottle between us, wishing it were a bong. He lights another joint passing it to me. We smoke in circles.
