They Said Smoking Was Dangerous, But Then Again, So Were You

Emily Crowley

Mr. Breaton

EWC 4U

27 April 2015

They Said Smoking Was Dangerous But Then Again, So Were You

I take a look back to the time when she had asked, “Where are they?”. At 8 years old, it’s hard to do what you’re told and I don’t say, it but the broken package of smokes was thrown in the toilet; a cabinet; behind the stove, where only small hands could grasp, and my crooked teeth grinned; I am the God of life, Mom, and cigarettes are bad!

But now look what you have done.

I can’t tell the difference between words, and the line that 8 year old girl had drawn has been blurred, out of reach. Now I try to forget by smoking too many cigarettes, and taking one shot, two shot, three shot . . . 10, and I go home at the end, smelling like bad decisions, and imminent health problems, and you. My mom won’t notice. No one has, had, will. They never do.

I’ll spend the rest of the day alone, but I’m never completely alone -- thoughts: I have mine to keep me company, they kill me slowly, because this God lacks the courage to end it. I am so god damn weak, so you can do the honours because you’re eating me alive, piece by miserable piece, have at it.  

I’ll sit awake at night, spending time listening to traffic, as cars drive by, lighting my room and leaving just as quick. I’ll make up where these people are going or where they have been, each story a game, and each game has a name, but the car I’m wishing for never comes and it’s a shame because the name of that game was yours. So I fall asleep eventually, after Gwen, Bill, and Fred have come and gone, I am somewhere between hopeless, tired, and dead.

I’ll wake up feeling more tired than before so I lock the door and exhale toxic clouds from my window.

I’ll spend my mornings on the bus listening to the couple seated behind me arguing about control the whole ride because it’s his fault for needing it; it’s hers for being willing, and while I like the absence of my own time to think, they remind me of us and no matter how hard I try to drown them out with music, they just won’t sink.

I step off the bus and the taunting doesn’t stop.

Because there’s a boy on the corner smoking something that was killing him but his eyes looked warm and while I smoke my own, I envy his demeanor. His lips could burn my skin but even that would be less painful than having loved him. He’s been addicted to drugs but then again, so was I, and no matter how hard I try not to be, I’m still addicted to the colour of his eyes. These bad habits will be the death of he and I.

I spend my days remembering. I spend my nights trying to forget, but I end up making it worse because to forget is to remember, and to remember is hell. He’s stuck in my head and while my memory isn’t the best, every single thing that includes him has been branded in my mind with the scorching hot tip of a cigarette, a permanent, painful habit, I’m unable to quit.

Get out.