Seasons of darkness (aláírt példány) [antikvár]

PROLOGUE Drawing the chair closer to the table, he sat down and shook a cigarette from the pack. He lit it and took a few deep draws, so that the tip glowed red. He'd already folded the handkerchief, and now he picked it up and stuffed it in his mouth. It wasn't that he doubted his own resolve, there was no question of that, but he'd learned to accept the body's instinctive weaknesses and to make allowances. The walls of this house were thin and he didn't want to risk being heard. He raised his bare left arm and studied for a moment the small tattoo just below his armpit. Then, deliberately, he pressed the tip of the cigarette into his flesh and held it there. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he bit down on the handkerchief. When he thought he had accomplished what he needed to, he lifted the cigarette away. The stench of burning flesh was nauseating but he welcomed it. He'd smelled it before and it reminded him that he was a soldier. He spat out the handkerchief and leaned forward, hands on his knees, head bent until his breathing slowed. He allowed one soft moan to come from his lips. Then he took the tin of salve from the table beside him and applied it carefully to the wound.