3Rai Kamishiro
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He has taken up smoking.
It's a nasty, horrid, addictive habit. He knows he will not quit though, as well as he knows that the smoke filling his lungs burn him in an intimate kiss. It burned the first time, smothered the second time, and killed him with the third.
It hurt, but not as bad as other things.
He sits on the edge of a windowsill, staring out at the traffic. There is little traffic, but he stares intently at the cars rather than him. It's almost religious.
The white light on his face are the cars coming, the red lights leaving. The white light lends him an ephemeral feel of ascension. The red bleeds him back to earth, until another car passes. It gives for an interesting contrast, and lending all too much symbolism to his painful heritage.
He breathes out.
The smoke filters in to the air, then into the night.
In a little while, so does he.