Fin

i am a cigarette.

There I stood on my patio at 10:08 pm. The cigarette in my hand burning a bright red, and the faint gray smoke wafting into the night sky. My first instinct was to walk over to the edge of the yard, daring myself to leave this small territory I've claimed as my home. I didn't move. I stayed exactly where I was, swaying back and forth from the buzz the tobacco gave me. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking; my mind was a blur of thoughts of you, the taste of the cigarette in my mouth, what it would be like to die, how it would feel to be held right then...

My gaze drifted to the opposite end of the yard, where a large cat sat on the fence, only the outline of it visible. It sat and watched me take each drag, each exhale, and each time I lit a new cigarette. I wondered what it'd be like to do what I wanted when I wanted. Not be held back by the standards society kept for us, or by what your conscience perceived as morally right. I thought that maybe, just for a day, I'd want that. To be free of all judgement, all laws, any rules that would keep me from being me for that one special day. I'd like that.

I turned and looked through the window on the door into my home. Everyone was asleep and all the lights were out except for the bathroom light. I leave it on so that I can see if anyone is walking around by using the shadows it creates. 

Slowly and quietly, I opened the door, making sure to close it as quickly as possible so as to not set off the alarms. I watched the red light on the security pad turn on and then off as I made my way inside the house. 

Carefully, I tiptoed through the living room to the staircase, trying my best to avoid the creaky panels in the flooring. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. Though I'd made this sneaky journey dozens of times, I remained panicked by the thought of being caught. If my mom just stepped out of her room, smelled the smoke on me, I'd be dead. 

"If I ever find out you've been smoking, I'll pull your teeth out for you, that way, you won't lose them from the mouth cancer you'll be getting. Well, I might as well just shave your head too, so that you're used to a bald head by the time you have to do chemotherapy," My mother half yelled as we were driving home one evening. I somehow smelled like stale cigarettes, even though I hadn't smoked in weeks and never smoked in the shirt I was wearing that day. She was probably smelling the coffee on my breath, as that sometimes resembles the taste and smell of tobacco. 

That day, I thought I was caught. I freaked out, and almost caved when she had first uttered the words, "When did you start smoking?" She said them so confidently and convincing that I almost told her the exact date: December 12, 2015. That was the first time Evan had pressured me into trying his weed. 

"No," I had groaned, already intoxicated. I had guzzled down twenty ounces of hard lemonade and taken four shots of straight liquor. I had heard of the nightmare of being cross-faded (drunk and high at the same time). I didn't want to risk it. 

"Come on," He pressed. "You won't regret it, I promise." 

But I did, and I do, and I will. 

I finally made it to my bedroom, not a soul in the house stirred by my absence. I shoved off my leggings and tied my hair up into the sloppiest ponytail I have ever done. I crawled into my unmade bed and pulled the covers over me so that I was a ball in the center of the mattress. 

I didn't go to sleep, though. I stayed awake, contemplating my entire life. I pictured laying beside you on the beach, the sound of the ocean relaxing me as you drew circles on the small of my back. I thought about what things would be like if I had never left my tiny town in Minnesota; if I had only begged my parents to stay in that city and not move us across the country. 

"We're moving to Texas," My father whispered to me one afternoon. "Your mother and I are done with the snow, and we decided on Houston." My heart had stopped. I could still hear the sound of my younger sisters rough-housing in the background with the T.V. playing reruns of The Simpsons. 

"When are we going?" I asked, barely able to catch my breath. 

"First day of summer vacation." 

The air underneath my sheets began to get warm and humid, making it difficult for me to breath. I poked my nose out of the covers, but kept everything else in. 

I had school the next day, and I knew I should probably get to sleep, but I couldn't. I kept thinking about the cat on the fence, and the way the fire was trapped in the cigarette so you couldn't see it, but I knew it was there, because I could feel it every time I brought it to my lips. I kept thinking about how similar the cigarette and I are in that way. 

I have so many ideas, so many emotions, so many opinions, and they're all stuck inside me. I could speak out. I could just say "Fuck it," and start yelling at everyone. But I keep everything in a glass bottle.  

I have a certain disdain for anything that requires me to openly admit things to other people. I try my hardest to only say things to people that I know for a fact will not get me in trouble and won't raise any questions whatsoever. 

"Are you okay?" My mother asked me one day. We were driving to the store to pick up some groceries. 

I wanted to just burst into tears and tell her everything that is hurting me, but I didn't. I wanted to turn into a giant bag of water and spill all of my contents onto the floor of the car, but I didn't. I wanted to scream and punch things, and run away, but I didn't. I sat there with a smile on my face and said, "Yes, I'm fine."