Every breath he took taunted him. Something so simple, so painful to continue these days. When he was younger he could run for miles. In the flimsy district school outside Lyon no one dared race him. Now his legs were brittle. He peered out the smoky window onto an empty street below. It looked cold outside, and really he had nowhere to be. He shuffled his way to the cabinet where his cans were stored. A few more beans left and a single tomato soup. They would have to do, he thought as he emptied the cans into a pot and layed it on his last bunsen burner. He hummed a song from his childhood in his stirring of his gobble dy gook dinner. When done he transferred the contents into a thermos mug. He took a look at the arsenic on the highest shelf. His eyes stared at the bottle for way too long, it’s skull warning label mocking him. Would be easier then this life to just check out wouldnt’ it?
Finally he looked away from the tempting death and grabbed his thermos. He went back to the other room and grabbed his latest find, a novel by Octavia Butler, Bloodchild. Turning the pages till he found his spot he imagined his way away into the book and sipped on his soup. The arsenic could wait till he finished the story at least.