The Last Trip

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Peter took a long drag on his joint and enjoyed the feeling of floating even further away. He was higher than he’d ever been and this time he felt he was never going to come down. He tried to take another drag, but the rolly had gone out. He leant forward and rested the stub in the ashtray; he’d relight it later. He closed his eyes and drifted around in his thoughts; he giggled at something and the grin sat gormlessly on his face. This had been the best day ever, the rain and wind had provided the excuse not to leave the flat and what better way to spend the day than to smoke yourself silly. He grabbed a slab of chocolate and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing with loud smacks. 
The light in his flat was hazy, a mixture of the smoke and the filter the drug had put on his eyes. He stared at the wall, it looked like it was slanting everything tilting to the right as if the house was slowing sliding down hill. He’d never noticed that the flat slanted before. Maybe it didn’t, maybe he just had his head tilted. Peter giggled, leant forward and relit his reefer, taking another hard drag. He savoured the taste before exhaling, smoke billowing from his nose like a steam train.  He stared at the wall again, lining up his head to try to level the slant. The leaning flat of Peter, he giggled. He was drifting off, gradually falling into a drug induce stupor. 
A loud crack woke him. He sat up and looked around like a startled meerkat, his Tom and Jerry heart was pounding away. He was hot, sweat dripping off his forehead. What was the noise? It was like nothing he’d ever heard before. Maybe he had dreamt it. He felt sick, dizzy; he really had been caning it today, he really should cut down. He grinned, he always said that, and then rolled up at the next opportunity.  He listened for another sound, there was a creak, a groan, just normal house sounds. But wait, was he was moving? Slowly slipping away?  No, it must be the dope. He rubbed his eyes, trying to sober himself up. He stood up to get a glass of water but felt dizzy so slumped back onto the sofa. He was moving, like a car on a hill without its handbrake on slowly rolling, picking up speed. He was cold, there was cold air on his sweat soaked body. He reached out for his tobacco; he’d roll himself a ciggie, just backy, no more dope tonight. The room was spinning; spinning or sliding? The movement was out of control now, he really had smoked too much. He was racing away, he couldn’t stop, but did he want it too? It was scary but exciting.  His whole flat was tilting, toppling, lurching away. 
Then there was another crack louder than before. A jolt threw Peter off his sofa and onto the floor where bricks and mortar rained down on him.
Peter lay motionless amongst the rubble, a gormless grin on his colourless face.