the best moment of her long—too long—life

Emmy could feel the slower beating of her heart. She could hear it now and again. More and more, she felt that fluttering sensation of arrhythmia in her chest, and then the too strong thumping of her heart; that one tribal drum, beaten without mercy inside of her, pulsing throughout the flesh of her body with its simple command to live. Her eyes weakened, the distance blurred so that it was just colored light and shadows, the memory of shapes, and the sense of near and far. The close up world held stark relief against the soft impressionist focus of the distance. The smoke—she could see the smoke curling away; it had a scent that she remembered, but her sense of smell had long since left her. She brought the rolled tobacco leaf to her lips and paused, looking down at the glowing ember. It was beautiful the way the light emanated from within. She smiled. She could feel the warmth against her upper lip. It was burned down short, so that it almost burned her fingertips. Over the years, her fingers had callused to cradle this fire; she knew it could burn all the way down to between her fingers and she would be fine holding it. Sometimes sleep came at odd moments. She tilted the faux magic wand rested in her fingers and brought the damp, open tip to her lips. There was a slight excitement, an expectation, as her throat lungs dilated to inhale the smoke. This drag was going to be the best moment of her long—too long—life.