text: I hate smoking! And yet, there’s nothing quite like it in the world. I always know that it’s going to make me sick, and despite this, I always crave another cigarette. Why is that? What urge drives me to do this? Do I want to make myself sick? Do I want to feel unhinged, uneased, unsafe? The moment I put a cigarette to my lips and feel that sweetly taste, or is it the smell that’s sweet? The moment when I inhale that first puff, the smoke filling my mouth with that disgusting taste of burnt paper and weeds... I pause for a nanosecond and I inhale again, this time the smoke runs through my throat burning it as it goes down to my lungs. Sometimes I even feel it in my stomach. My lips are dry, I lick them and feel the taste of the cigarette butt on them. Such a sickly taste, it makes me want to vomit. And, exhale! My mouth is dry and the smoke makes it even more so. I’m starting to feel woozy, I always feel like this when I smoke. Every damn time! Maybe this is why I do it, for this mini feeling of elation, this quasi-break from the shit-show that is my life. For this one moment of feeling something good, of feeling in control. Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat! Sometimes I like to play with the cigarette between my fingers, gripping it between my thumb and index finger, using the middle one to complete this delicate balancing act between practicality and showmanship. I look like Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ when I smoke like this. Is this why I do it? Neah! Or is it. I think grizzled old sailors smoke like this, you know them?, the ones that have that look in their eyes, like nothing can move them anymore. As if they’ve seen it all. You know them, right? Have I seen it all? Do you actually need to see everything, to see it all? Or, maybe you just need to see enough of it to get fed up with the rest and be done with it. Forever. I have an acrid taste in my mouth and my stomach’s churning. Damn, I hate smoking! “You look ridiculous!” he startles me. How long has he been there? I try to find words but I’m all chocked out. The queasiness climbs up a note. “What are you looking at?” he insists. I’m looking at him. He’s all teeth and no smile. Sitting across the table from me, cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He looks so confident, so full of self. Is it this? Is this why I smoke? A half-assed attempt to be more like him? “Did you grow some extra teeth?” I try to look confident but I can feel the blood rushing from my brain. He lets out a chortle, exposing more of his teeth. He always did look more hyena than man when he laughed. “Why? Did you lose yours?” How can he be so sure of himself? What does he have that I don’t? I bring the cigarette to my lips and pull on it as I look him in the eyes. I need to put it out or I’ll end up puking. I use this as an excuse and break away from his gaze and search for the ashtray. Exhale! I crush the cigarette, chasing down any stray embers. “What do you want?” I ask him, striving to regain my composure just a bit. “To help you, of course!” he answers, smiling benevolently. As I look at him I realize that his face looks like one of those Japanese Noh Masks, if I shift a bit to the left all his benevolence turns into something else. “Hmmm, why?” I can’t take my eyes off of him, it’s like I’m expecting for the mask to crack if I stare long enough, to allow me to see into his soul. “Come now, why must you always treat me like I’m your enemy?” he asks. “Because you never treated me as a friend!” bile rises in me as I utter that word: friend. Once I thought he was my only friend, he chose to be by my side when no one else would. Through thick and thin we carried each other. When I got bullied he toughened me up, when Mom humiliated me he reassured me, when Dad beat me up he stood up for me. He had always been there for me, and yet, somehow, as I look back on it, it feels as if he was always there for himself. It seems that my words found the tiny gap in his act, a geyser of hate shoots from his eyes as he bends closer to look at me, to frighten me. “You insolent wretch! If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have survived so long in this world.” “Yes, yes! I know the story too well to have you chew my ear off with it right now.” “You ...” spittle shoots from his mouth as he finishes his sentence “weakling!” As I look at him I see only rage, his mouth wide open, predatorial, telling me that he would like nothing more than to rip out my throat. “I am what you made me!” I shout convulsively. And at that moment everything fades and a hysterical laugh spews out from his clenched jaws. As I stare in amazement I can feel the pressure of time flowing through me, his laughter unceasing, unending, its point to break me in ridicule, to bring about ceaseless memories of moments such as this that I was forced to endure throughout my life. Moments that broke me, no, shattered me to my core, until I couldn’t make heads or tails of what I was anymore. Like all great artists, he ends his performance on a high note, tilting his head to one side and says: “If only!” widening his grin into a rictus. “No!” flatly “You are what you’ve made yourself to be. Every inch of the fabulous victim that you’ve become has been handcrafted into perfection by your spineless and stubborn self.” As he finishes his sentence I am left hollow. The echo of his words resound in me, bouncing from the walls of my being, faster, stronger, until their truth becomes one with who I am. I feel tears starting to well up at the corner of my eyes. I feel completely, utterly broken. “As I was saying” he continues “now that Mom and Dad are finally gone, good riddance for that” as he makes a mocking cross gesture “and you are all alone in this big bad world, I’ve decided to come and help you!” smiling benevolently once more in emphasis. That’s right! I am all alone now... I... am... all... alone! “I was thinking that we should sell their apartment and go to the beach for the summer. Drown our sorrows into whatever we can drown them over there... " he goes on. I am all alone! As the words sink deeper and deeper into my being my hand goes out towards the cigarette pack. With trembling fingers I pull out another cigarette and bring it to my lips. The taste doesn’t bother me anymore. I search for a light, feeling my pockets in a clockwork fashion, first the right pocket from my jeans, then the one from my shirt, finishing with the left jeans pocket. It’s not there. I am all alone! “We can stay at that hostel by ...” and on. It was behind the ashtray. I light up the cigarette and I pull on it purposefully. It goes straight to my brain, relaxing me. As I do so I take a closer look at the lighter. It’s the most ridiculous kind of pink and it has the image of a black cat on it. Sarah bought it for me. I really loved Sarah! and I am all alone! ripple inside. “We’ll spend all day at the bar, the one right on the beach ...” and on. “The one where we met Sarah?” my sight is glazed over at this point and I’m staring into nothingness. “Yes! that one” venomously, “hopefully there will be fewer shrews hanging around this time,” he straightened up at this. “In any case, we first need to get rid of the apartment.” I am truly, deeply alone! I remember now. I started smoking in order to fit in. “We should start by...” “No!” I calmly bring the cigarette to the corner of my lips. We stare at each other through the mirror one last time. I raise my arm and squeeze. “I’ve always been alone!” softly. Click!