Cigarette Burns // FP Jones

Chapter One

The cigarette fell to the floor, the amber fading into the grey tarmac. I exhaled the last cloud of smoke before stepping into my new home, closing the rotting door behind me. When I had been younger, I'd have shouted to let my parents know I was home, but with age, they didn't care anymore. The only one who was ever excited to see me was my little brother Mike, who was ten years old, and looked up to my bad behaviour. Although I was glad to be appreciated, my parents found it quite the opposite. I don't think there was one thing I'd done that they were proud of.

"How was school?" My older brother's deep voice filled the empty space, as he emerged from a doorway. The sudden noise had shocked me, but as the soundwaves ricocheted off of the whitewashed walls and into the hall, I didn't show my discomfort.
"Fine." I replied, walking to the bottom of the stars. My brother and I said little to each other, as the family did. Though we were both there for one another, no matter the silence, we knew each other's deepest secrets. The only difference between us was that mother and father would never have guessed what he'd gotten up to. James had my same dark hair and green eyes, but our height difference was significantly dissimilar. He stood at a towering six foot, yet I merely reached five. A gene I'd sadly missed out on, as well as the thin limbs. I was chubbier than my slim, athletic family, though it hadn't bothered me too much.

I placed my bag onto my bed, taking in my surroundings. My new room was dull, a chrome desk, double bed, white walls and a built-in wardrobe. Nothing unique, nothing personal. But it was how I liked it. Leaving a mark would let people in, and give an impression of who I was. Don't forget, I still haven't figured that part out yet. Over the years I'd accumulated many things I'd attempted to decorate with, and all of them had ended up in the trash. I'd gone through phases, this band, that band, this colour, that colour. Nothing seemed to stick, nothing suited the emptiness which was me. Plain, simple, unimaginative. That was the only thing that seemed to fit, the basic and dull feel made me feel comforted. I didn't have to pretend to be something I wasn't - a boy-band fan, a comic nerd. Nothing.

I watched the light flicker, deciding whether or not to go on my phone, or to catch up on all of the things I'd missed through my transfer. Of course, I picked my phone over any sort of cognitive development, because drowning out the thoughts was easier than creating them.
'1 message'

Unlocking my phone, I checked to see who'd texted me.
'Hey Jasmine, it's Jughead. I thought it was worth asking if you'd want to come down to the Wyrm, seeing as you didn't really have any friends and all.'

Yes, the boy from earlier. We'd spoken about the Serpents in detail, the group seemed interesting. I'd genuinely liked Jughead, though I knew it was a matter of time before the gang life would bore me, as the preppy, nerdy and drug life had. A lot of problems had emerged when I started taking drugs, which are still present to this day. My shrink had told me that that had been where I lost myself, and whomever Jasmine was remained with the first spliff I'd smoked, and deteriorated through the heroin, cocaine, and God knows what else I pumped into my weak veins. Although I still craved the feeling of euphoria, I knew I'd only come back down to reality. Besides, I didn't have a way of paying for an addiction at the minute.

I replied hastily, agreeing to make my way out to the Southside, and be a part of the emo gang. It would most likely be a grotty bar or strip club, full of middle aged men in leather jackets, pretending they'd die for one another. When in actual fact, they were only there because they were divorced, and in need of drama in their lives. If a woman could give one thing to a man, it was definitely drama. Or that's what all men seemed to think.

I changed into a sexier outfit, a black halter-necked crop top, along with black denim shorts and ankle boots. Admittedly, I was nervous, because I was inexperienced with bikes, older men and whatever conversation they'd probably make with me. But there I was, Jasmine Cole, dying to find her place in the mist that was the teenage years. This could be my true calling - or, most likely, not.
"I'm going out!" I shouted once at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing one of the more casual jackets from the hook, knowing it was my mom's, and that she'd have a heart attack if she saw my attire, and probably die if she watched me leave the house in her coat. But at this point, no one bothered to say good-bye to me.