The smoke filled his lungs like a familiar friend, and Ezekiel knew that what came next would be not long in wait. His fingers, pads thick and calloused by the bow and physical labor, were still nimble enough to work the fragile glass and fire. He took another hit and held his breath while Barrett spoke of some false ideal of what being a king was. Ezekiel handed him the piece back, face warping into a cruel smile. It turned him into a dead man he had never know (though the eyes belonged to the dead man’s lover) and knew little about.
He looked down at his own feet, stained a no-color brown by the earth and the distance put between him and his home. The drug slipped into his brain silently, turning his eyes hazy. Familiarity brought comfort, and he smiled in that same terrible way—as if masochistically he enjoyed the pain. “I feel like I live in Purgatory,” he explained, smoke pouring out of his mouth. He gestured with his hands to draw the mythical pyramid. “Surrounded by the Wrathful and Envious and Proud, and those made wicked by love.” He added bitterly, leaning back against the couch.
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