[ FF ] A man has twenty minutes to live and what he wants most is a cigarette

I have fought and killed for the Allies. The British, mostly. I have raised a beautiful daughter and seen her find a husband and have three children of her own. Three! And they are all well taken care of and youthful little sprites. 
 
 I am going to die and all I want is my lungs to fill with smoke. I want to puff on the addictive nicotine stem that gives sustenance. I need it. I want it. That is the order. That is the command I wish to give to these useless caregivers and busybodies. 
 
 There are roots in my body that disrupt my discipline. They squeeze around me, and force me to want to smoke, to yearn for it and pine for it like my first true love. 
 
 When my wife had given up on intimacy and love, all I wanted to do was smoke down an entire pack. 
 
 When the house plumbing and electrical failed, I did not want to fix it. I wanted to fix myself with chemical smoke. 
 
 The truth is: I am an addict. An addict who can punish himself. Denying the savior to my body. Hold back from the holy water for my mind: cigarettes. 
 
 In these last moments, when I am alone, as my daughter and family have left me in this place, for the night. I think of them as second class, they are far behind my need for the one true physical relief I seek. 
 
 Give me a lighter. Give me a smoke. Give me a puff and let me exhale. 
 
 To breathe in the grisly vapor. 
 
 The pictures of lungs and cancer can not dissuade me. The warnings of ‘ experts ’ and ‘ academics ’ can not change my mind. All I care for, is the truth in the breathe in. The pleasure in the exhale. 
 
 Give it to me. Give it to me. I am stuck in a bed and it is all I crave. 
 
 Give it to me. Give it to me. I rage and I bleat, I am a lamb, do not deny me this one last wish. Give in to it! 

