𝐀 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 echos through the dark forest.
In the cover of the night, the little flame is seen for miles. Dancing on the tip of the lighter, it sheds warmth against your thumb, burns you- if you dared to get too close. You've always had this lighter, received it once as a gift from your grandfather. It fits in your palm snugly, has a pastel golden colour, and is engraved with the image of a fox.
Fox. That's what they tease you with, ever since spotting the mammal on your lighter.
It's supposed to calm you. Flipping the lid open and closing it again, the fidgeting usually helps soothing your strained nerves, gave you something to focus on. As silly as it may sound.
Darkness envelops the world. Only silence follows the wind on its travel through the woods. Long had owls and birds escaped the lands you fought on, deafened and terrified by the loud noises of war. The camp is far away, with it anyone who could catch you awake at such an ungodly hour.
You lean against a tree, feeling snippets of bark dig into your back.
Flipping open the lighter is a familiar movement; however, uncertainty marks your hands as you squeeze the cigarette between your chapped lips. You've never been a smoker. And you didn't want to be caught doing so, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝.
An unpleasant smell soon lays in the air, and your eyes close in discomfort. Gripping the end of the cigarette, you muster the strength to take a long drag. Immediately, your lungs fill with the burning sensation of hot smoke, and you feel it roll through your chest.
Holding it trapped in your lungs for a moment longer, you finally pull the cigarette from your lips, and exhale the toxic smoke into the dark night sky.
The burn makes your throat sore. Upon swallowing and feeling the tiny needles poking into your flesh, you can't help but start coughing.
God, the smell.
"A German sniper could've spotted that flame from miles away."
Looking up, your body still wrecked with a coughing fit, you don't even have the breath left to gasp. Turning away from the dark figure, you cough especially hard once, twice, then manage to rasp a struggled, "𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬?"
"In the flesh."
"What the hell are you doing out here?"
He steps towards you and without missing a beat, pulls the cigarette out of your fingers' grasp. You're still distracted and can't react in time, so you only stare at him in bewilderment, luckily finding your lungs calming down again.
