Almost Out of Fuel (a scene)

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Tapping the bottom of the cigarette box, the rain pitters around me. the door to Sonic creaks slowly as someone exits. the cigarette tastes like soured paper in my mouth. My hands shiver as I shake my lighter; it’s almost out of fuel. Sparks fly as I try lighting the tip of my borrowed cigarette. When it finally ignites, the tiny flame casts quivering shadows onto the damp concrete. inhale the bitter-tasting smoke, then exhale. It’s cold tonight, but my cigarette keeps me warm. Inhale, pause, exhale. I can practically see my lungs getting darker by the second. I imagine them shriveling up, struggling to pump oxygen into my veins to keep my body moving, my heart beating. Just this once, I tell myself the same lie I’ve been trying to enforce since two years before. I am not addicted; I am not an addict. The words I had spoken to my dad a few hours ago flitter through my mind, piercing my heart. A few hours ago. about nine or ten death sticks, at least. My brother told me it was called chain-smoking. maybe I am addicted. “But I could stop when I want,” I whisper into the night as ash falls onto my lap. How cruel it is, to put so much poison into one little stick of paper. my ripped jeans are speckled with dark raindrops and my shoes are sitting beside me, my feet free. Other times I would’ve cared what people thought of me. but now... now I’m just tired. Tired of all the eyes staring, the whispers starting. I know it’s strange, to see the wealthiest person in town wearing scraps and needing a shower. but that’s what happens when you’re not on the best terms with your family. That’s what happens when you’re asked to leave. When you’re politely kicked out. Lighting up another cigarette, I gaze up to the night sky. Due to the blaring lights from Sonic and the gas station next door, you can’t see the stars or even dark clouds. You could only see the near wall of musty grey. “How do we go back?” I whisper to the sky and the smoke and my dead mother. “How do we go back?”

#Smoking #Familytrouble #MelodyInkwell