Prisoners of War - Chapter 8

Essay by spoonman419 August 2004

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I sighed, fumbling with the tie and moved over to my mirror admiring the suit I wore. I hadn't worn it since my dad's funeral, and had hoped that I would never have to again, but I did. I checked my watch wondering where Mike was and sluggishly made my way downstairs and plopped on the couch. I didn't want to go to this trial...

I sighed looking at the pipe and bad of weed. I wanted to smoke it but knew I shouldn't. I just felt like ****. My leg began to nervously tap as I stared between the clock and door, and then gave in and snatched up the bag and pipe and loading a bowl.

Over the past four days I've made the change from completely no idea what I was doing, to being quick and efficient at getting what needed to be done, done...that being said within a few minutes, I was nicely ripped, and lay back in my chair with a big smile on my face.

The high that I loved was back, which was surprising considering the circumstances. Nevertheless I didn't look at my watch again, until I heard knocks come from the door.

"Hey man..." Mike said softly fiddling with his tie. "Do you know how to tie one of these things?" I shook my head wobbling and he looked at me and cursed. "Jesus your high aren't you? I left that **** incase you wanted to smoke last night, not this morning."

I chuckled. "Sorry man, I couldn't hold back..." I staggered and nearly fell but he grabbed hold of me and gently guided me back to my chair sitting me down. Shaking his head he grabbed the rest of the weed and pipe and went into the kitchen.

He came back...