Killjoy ; SetoSolace

| 6 |

| 6 | Smoking Is An Art Of Decaying Lungs

***

I spent the remainder of my day in the woods; the same woods where I passed out like an idiot from hitting my head too hard. It was truly horrifying to come back to see a tree with your own blood splattered all over it like some kind of fucking halloween decoration. Of course, the animals in the forest didn't mind it, bloodshed happened all the time here. Hell, I could have been standing on a buried graveyard of animal corpses right now.

I sat down on a tree stump in the middle of a clearing where the cloudy, gray sky was visible. From the few days I've been here in New York State—I could assume the sun rarely came out. It was always cold; disheveled and never made out like the movies were. With cigarettes, however, the puffy smoke seemed to last longer, as well as the scent. The flame was more prone to being blown out—much like Wisconsin. If I woke up with amnesia one morning and looked out the window, I could probably convince myself with the thought of still being in Wisconsin. It was disclosure, truly.

The ground below my feet stained my shoes, as well as the bottom of my backpack. I unzipped my backpack and reached for my lighter and cigarette box that was well hidden under my textbooks. The cigarette box had a dent in it from the weight, a noticeable one on the word "Marlboro." I quickly lit my lighter, a white prestige spare, and managed to light the cigarette after a few tries. Anxiously, I kept the cigarette between my two fingers and relaxed myself as I mindlessly let it drift onto my lips.

"Aren't you a bit too young to smoke?" I panicked, turning around to be met with the boy who was named Tyler—Ty actually. He had a leather jacket that was swung loosely over his shoulders.

I shook my head, puffing the smoke out and watched it disappear into the cold atmosphere. It wasn't like I was afraid of someone seeing me smoke—it was more of the questioning and the awkward conversation that would follow. I wasn't the type to talk, I'd rather be the "stoic" and "silent" type—introverted perhaps. Of course, the red-eyed male was most likely wanted an answer. So with a bland voice that showed no interest in further conversation, I was as blunt as possible.

"Yeah."

"Then—" he looked to be lost for words, "—why do you smoke, then?"

I shook my head again, "It's a habit. You're starting to sound like my mother, Tyler."

He frowned, the corners of his lips curving perfectly downwards, "It's Ty. I don't want to be confused for Tyler Christie."

"Why are you asking in the first place?"

He paused for a moment, his eye(s?) intently watching me as I breathed in the smoke, then let it go back into the atmosphere. "I'm just interested. Jason described you as someone that was mysterious—he didn't mention a stoner as one of your traits."

"Look," I rolled my eyes seemingly into the back of my head, "smoking is an art—God's gift of nicotine has solved all my problems."

"You're starting to sound like Brice."

I scrunched my nose, "The Australian?"

"Yeah, Brice Purton," he nodded in agreement. He adjusted the jacket so it wouldn't fall down. "So, art you say?"

I bit my lip, hesitant on a proper, structured answer, "It's an art. You know how dancing is a type of art? It's like that, but different."

And that's when I found myself explaining the euphoria cigarettes gave me to a guy that was no older than me.

"Smoking is an art of decaying lungs. It's like a game; the more you smoke the worse your condition gets. It's like New Years, and when you know that life is rough—a euphoriant kingdom is awaiting you in these little packets. It's an exhilaration of winning an award, or being in the presence of someone, or something, you love so much. It's an unbelievable euphoria—Tyler Ellis—and it's a euphoria for those who don't have anything else to lose but themselves."