Pain Pills and Pancakes

Sitting down at his daily feast, a wicked grin overlapped his sharp, oddly handsome features. It was the same shit, a different pile every day. He loved this sweet, sugary, blissful shit pile, though. It gave him some normalcy to his otherwise stressful and less than sweet days.

Three pancakes were stacked haphazardly on the Styrofoam plate. They were those pathetic microwave pancakes from McDonald's that tasted like soggy ass after a couple of hours, but he never became sick of them. God knows he wasn't talented enough to make his own damn pancakes, so he settled with the ones that - if he didn't hurry up and eat them, would end up tasting like a molded bag of smashed assholes.

He dug around in his pocket, fishing out what was to be the icing on the hot-cakes. He was never much for a pun, but he couldn't help himself sometimes. Finding the little white pills, he smiled again. Today would make for a good day, he decided, as he laid out four of the little ovals next to his black, plastic McDonald's issued utensils.

Though he didn't have anything else in the world, no friends, no family, not even a real history - he had these two things. His pain pills and his pancakes, that is. Every morning he crawled out of his cruddy cot and headed out to his dealer - whose name he still doesn't know, even after buying from him for a year or two now - and trudged to McDonald's. This monotonous routine was what he looked forward to most each day because he knew he could control this.

He wasn't used to having control over much else. He controlled how much he ate, how much he rewarded himself with, how much he destroyed his own body. All he needed in life were these pancakes and these pain pills and everything would be okay; even if it was a sick, warped fantasy that only lasted for a few silenced moments.