She woke up with the same vacant feeling that occupied her thoughts most days of the weeks. It was nothing new.
But it was thunder-storming out, so that was cool.
Rain had the capacity to calm her nerves almost as much as a cigarette or a puff from a
joint...but not quite.
She rolled out of bed, allowing her black hair to freely fall down from the bun it was in. Walking silently as to not wake her parents, she made her way down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen. She stole a cigarette from the pack in the fridge, briefly wondering what misinformed google hyperlink told her parents that a fridge was the place to store them.
Tucking it for a moment behind her ear, she grabbed the match box and struck one of the sticks upon it, watching the flame with a newfound light in her eyes.
Sauntering out to the porch she lit her cigarette and sat down. The street was empty besides the sound of the rain thudding on the pavement. A part within her urged to run out and extend her arms, staring up into the clouds that granted her this lovely day. Instead she leaned back and took a long drawl of her cigarette, letting the smoke pass her lips in one long thin line.
"How many times must I tell you those things are poison?"
She looked to her left at the boy who found his way onto her porch.
"Nice to see you too Tate," she deadpanned.
"I'm just looking out for you Grace." He sat down beside her.
"If you're that bothered why are you now next to me."
He gently pulled the cigarette from her hand. "Because I can't keep myself away from
you, love."
She smiled briefly before shaking her head. "You don't even know me darling."
Tate placed it between his lips and, once satisfied, held it back out. "Your turn."
He blew the smoke from his lips, his eyes dancing over Grace's face as she leaned closer to him, staring back into his eyes as she took a puff.
When she sat back up she crossed her legs. "What happened to poison?"
"Here's the thing, Grace. Life is poison. So are cigarettes, so what difference does it really make
in the end?"
She pondered it for a second before adding, "My friend saw me once, and he told me I'd die sooner." She turned her head lazily back to look at him. "I told him that was the point."
He chuckled and look out into the street. Cigarette in his left hand, her hand now resting in his right.
"Fond of the rain?" He asked, anticipating the answer.
"It's...intoxicating," she breathed out, resting her head upon his shoulder. "Isn't it?"
He looked down at her. "Yeah, sure is."
He leaned his head back as the cigarette found its way to his mouth again.
"Grace," he murmured.
She hummed softly in response.
"Will you run away with me?"
There was no delay. "Okay."
His eyes were closed. "I knew you would say yes."
"No you didn't."
"I did though," he said softly. "Because I know you're hurting. And that you want to get away."
Lightning flashed in the sky.
When she remained quiet, he continued on, passing her cigarette back to her. He rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, exposing the marks she'd given herself.
"No more pain Grace. No more hurting."
She sighed and shoved her sleeve back down.
"What are you running from?" She asked him.
He held her hand tighter. "Everything."
The next day Grace sat on the porch, waiting for Tate's ritual return. But he didn't show. She frowned and, cigarette dangling between her fingers, she walked over to his house. He wasn't on his porch.
After a lot of pondering and hesitation, she rung the doorbell. An entire minute must've passed before the door opened. A red eyed woman eventually appeared in the doorway.
"Can I help you?" She sniffled and swiped at the tears on her cheek.
A knot formed in Grace's stomach, a force telling her that something was irreparably wrong. She held her breath for a moment before finally managing "Is Tate home? I live next door." She nodded to the left with her head.
"Oh honey..." Her eyes fell to the cigarette in her hand. "You shouldn't be smoking at your age. Those things are poison."
Grace's mouth fell ever so slightly ajar. She closed it. "Tate. Is he alright?"
The question spurred more tears in the woman's eyes. Her hand gripped the door frame tighter. "I'm afraid he...he took his own life awhile back."
The words rung in her ears, not allowing her any time to deny the horrible truth. "No. Why-I just talked to him yesterday morning."
Seeing the woman's distress, she murmured her condolences and stumbled back to her own porch. On the way over the cigarette fell from her curled fingers. A sob escaped her lips, the sound drowned out by the thunder. Falling to her knees, she collapsed both hands over her mouth and clenched her eyes shut.
"Grace, honey, you do this every week." He drawled.
Her teary eyes opened and looked at Tate sitting next to her, knees drawn to his chest.
"What are you talking about?"
"I've been dead for over a year now. And every week you go on ringing my poor mother's doorbell asking for me."
"But you're right here," she whispered and held out her hand. He took it in both of his.
"I truly wish I were."
Her bottom lip trembled. "You regret it then, don't you?"
He nodded feverishly. "I'm so sorry Grace," he whispered, running a hand through her now wet hair. "I'm sorry I left you."
Sadness enveloped them both in the chaos of the storm, bringing them closer to each other than before. He placed both hands on either side of her face, leaning in to give her one last longing kiss.
When her eyes opened, Tate was gone.
The next morning it did not rain. And so Grace hated the day more than usual, calling for a cigarette. She stepped outside with it already lit and delicately sitting between her fingers. It was foggy out. The air crisp and cool, leaving her feeling slightly at peace.
"Those things are poison you know," a voice gently reminded her from nearby.
"Yeah," she took in a long breath of it. "I know."
