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The dust closed his eyes, clogged his throat, sent the panic soaring to a place he knew he would never return from. The fear made him weak, broken, cowering. The fear was more than he was prepared to handle. He knew that it would destroy him, and he longed for that destruction.

If he could have pressed pause on the situation, he might have been able to think of a way out, but he was too tired. Too fucked up. His thoughts were slow and sluggish. 

He tried to put the lid back on the pill bottle and failed, sending scores of round, white pills stampeding down the drain. It didn't matter, but it bothered him. He hated things to be messy and had gone to great lengths to prevent any kind of messes in his life. 

He could feel the dust settling on his skin, now, and he knew the end was coming. He would soon be dried out, desiccated, pinned to the wall with tape underneath, displaying Latin words. This would be a legacy if nothing else. He would continue to educate the masses. There was some solace there.

He closed his eyes and smiled.

Dust to dust.