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He sped home, leaning shakily into gravel-strewn corners, sending pebbles skittering out at tangents to the arc of the turn. The motorbike wobbled as he straightened out of the corner: the trembling had already started.

The bike was left on its sidestand in the garage. In his haste, he left the key in the ignition too.

It had been less than 24 hours and he already needed a fix. The intervals were getting shorter, and the doses larger. This is the cycle of doom; the body becomes conditioned to the stimuli that indicate that a dose is imminent, allowing tolerance to build, requiring ever-larger amounts to be ingested. Addiction.

With spastic hands he selected his implements: a long serrated knife and a shorter, duller knife too. He sliced the bread thick, toasted it for 75 seconds, covered one side with peanut butter and ungraciously stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, whole.

Sigh.