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It was very tempting to let himself go. A bit of tobacco is so easily bought, fresh cigarette so easily rolled, a match so easily lit... And even if he didn’t feel like smoking, he knew very well that the saloon wouldn’t hesitate to give him their strongest whisky for the right price. Oh! How tempting it was to have one glass too much and let himself forget everything! To take a deep puff of smoke and let tobacco give him an instant of peace! But he’d promised to take care of himself. A promise he was finding himself regretting much too often.
He didn’t know him for long, but Doc had easily become one of his best friends. He was a good man who had endured too much suffering. It was nice, having someone who’d lived the same kind of life as him. Someone who understood him. He would have liked to get to know him some more.
Sometimes, he’d crack. Those days where even the thought of lemonade was unbearable, he’d order a beer and swallow his remorse. And during big celebrations, or after a long hunt, a little glass of whisky didn’t hurt anyone. Except his liver, his teeth, his conscience, his promise, his promise his promise his promise–
He’d been warned. Doc had warned him. Even the cards, who had given him two black aces and two black eights, Death’s hand, seemed to try and warn him. After all, nothing lasts for long, be it his stay in a city or someone he cares about. Doc had said it. “You’re unlucky, Luke!”
While far from routine, nightmares weren’t exactly strangers to him either. Memories of a ghost town, pillaged by bandits; a hypothetical duel where he’d be just a bit too slow; a hostage he didn’t manage to save, the list is long. But after Froggy Town, almost all were replaced by the body collapsed in the mud, his own clothes worn by another, a bullet well placed in the back. Sometimes, he’d stay there, unable to move, watching the blood stain his favorite shirt. More often, he’d manage to kneel next to the cadaver, just in time to hear its final words, its final breath. However, dreams are cruel, and nightmare even more so. Most often, he’d find himself with a colt in his his hand, his colt, his seven-shot, the only one in the entire country, still fuming. He had shot. He had killed him. Everything was his fault. It should have been him. And this feeling haunted him outside his dreams too, as soon as he found his joy of living, a small happiness. He couldn’t stop thinking of Doc, deprived of it all. It was his duel, his investigation, his decision, his colt, his fault his fault his fault–
When he woke up that morning, the weight of his revolver was so repulsive that he tossed as far as he could, without an ounce of hesitation. To Hell with safety! It’s not like being armed had saved Doc. Still, he regretted his decision. Great job! Way to act like a spoiled child! He got up and started rummaging in the general direction he threw his weapon. It was Jolly Jumper who found it, stuck in the roots of a half-dried out bush. He took the revolver, felt its weight, still disgusting but a bit more bearable now that he had regained his senses, the one and only mark on its butt, commemorating... It was too much.
A bit of tobacco he’s kept just in case, a piece of crumpled paper, a match stricken on its box. After almost 3 years of restraint, Lucky Luke breathed in the smoke.
“Cheers, Doc.”