Killjoy ; SetoSolace

| 4 |

| 4 | Pretty Boys With Dying Lungs

***

I sighed as I found myself lost in my own wanderings in the state that I would temporary call an artificial "home." The atmosphere didn't feel welcoming at all, it wasn't compared to my original home state—Wisconsin.

I've always kept my addiction with cigarettes to myself, but lately it's been slipping. I started smoking when I was around twelve or eleven—I was a stupid kid back then. I hung out with the seventeen year olds who I thought were "cool." They've always hooked me up with free cigarettes. They didn't mind the fact that they were setting up a twelve or eleven year old with a lifetime of pain and misery, but I didn't blame them. It was their escape from their shitty lives, and they helped me escape from mine. I felt like they were the only ones who understood me, besides Isaac after all. Our interactions were short, I usually got multiple ten packs of cigarettes from them. I managed to snag three ten-packs of cigarettes from them before I moved to New York State.

I remember that awkward airplane ride that took place a few hours ago. I was squished in the middle between the two people that I despised. My mother sat on my right and my father sat on my left, peacefully sleeping. I could tell my mother had a lot on her mind, her eyebrows were furrowed and there were wrinkles on her forehead. It was quiet in the airplane, only the sound of the airplane's engine filled the dull silence. I had a book on my lap and the urge to smoke written in my expression. Mother had only found out I had a smoking addiction on Thursday, just two days ago. I didn't think she would care, but I could obviously tell she did.

"Seto," she said, voice cracking a bit, "why do you smoke?"

I looked up from my book, a bland, tasteless expression on my face. No point of hiding from it now. I pretended to play dumb anyway, although I did know my mother was too smart for my silly games. I cocked my head to the side, "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she murmured, gazing straight into my eyes. They were glossy, almost to the brim with transparent tears, "how long had you smoked?"

I was stupid enough to reply with the truth, "Almost six years."

I went back to being engrossed in my book, flipping through the pages and feeling the paper slash against my fingers. If reading was a type of high, then I was addicted. It would have been a safer alternative than smoking, but the more I smoked the less problems I had. Or, at least I felt like it gave me less problems. It made my mind more clear, even peaceful and less "war filled" perhaps. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to die earlier than most people my age, I've lost my will to live ever since I've signed my own death contract by smoking that first cigarette.

"Please Seto, tell me why you smoke." Mother's voice sounded so desperate. I rolled my eyes, biting on my lip.

"You've always wanted me to be productive, so that's how I'm fucking productive, got it?" I snapped, harshly. I cursed under my breath and went back to reading.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't be the best mother to you, I'm so sorry," she murmured, as quiet as a mouse. I didn't feel guilty, or at least at the time I didn't. I could hear her small, incoherent pitiful sobs that were drowned out by the airplane's buzzing engine.

My train of thoughts had stopped as I entered the forest. It was large, dark, and filled with mysteries that were waiting to be revealed. The time was around 1:00AM, a Saturday morning that was cold and disgusting. I reached into my jean pocket and took out the cigarette packet, then grabbed a cigarette for myself. With the cheap, purple bic lighter I owned, I lit the flame and ignited the cigarette. The feeling of it being in between my two fingers brought nostalgia flooding through my mind. I put the cigarette in my mouth.