TRIGGER WARNING
-Self harm
-Hate speech
-Smut
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Living had become so difficult, even the most basic tasks were chores. It seemed, the new slogan of my life was on repeat, reminding me every second.
'He never loved me, he never loved me, he never...'
The first time I smoked had been a little over a month ago. I had probably been at my lowest moment yet when I saw the little box of cancer sticks on the counter.
The idea had appealed to me, neat little packages of death, ready for me to consume.
Grabbing them, I took a sharp turn out onto the fire escape that clung to my apartment like a vine.
My hands shook as I pulled out the lighter I always had in my pocket, and I struggled to hold still as I lightly lit the tip.
After the first inhale, I was hooked.
Hooked on the knowledge that I chose to poison myself, filling my lungs with toxins.
Too afraid to kill myself directly, but not too scared to start.
I guess I did it because the feeling of smoke choking my lungs, almost blocked out the pain of living.
My own little rebellion against the government, and against myself.
I ended up smoking 4 or 5 cigarettes, enjoying the nicotine buzz that came with them, before I closed the pack back up, slipping it into my bomber jacket.
There was not a chance my mother wouldn't notice, but what could she even do about it.
Traces of grey smoke still trailed from my lips as I stepped back into the living room, much cleaner than usual, due to the fact that my mother was visiting for a day.
I practically threw myself onto the couch, energy spent for the day and nicotine pumping through my veins.
The first time I smoked also happened to be the first time I saw him.
The sofa I had been on was facing a large window, overlooking the streets of Amsterdam. Staring at it blankly, I zoned out until something vaguely interesting caught my eye.
A girl, one with remarkable silver hair, was lounging on a wooden bench across the street, eyeing me with an emotion I couldn't place.
I stood up, sufficiently shocked and just stared back at her.
The leather of the couch clung to the pads of my fingers as I stood beside it.
She was wearing a dark sweatshirt, the hood lazily pulled back and black, ripped, skinny jeans with two different kinds of shoes.
What a strange person.
Slowly, after around 3 minutes of staring, she got up. And left.
What the fuck.
YOU ARE READING
Smoke
Romance'Why do you do this to yourself?' She panted, looking almost angry at my lack of self-preservation. 'Because I deserve it.' In which a girl knows she is killing herself, but she can't stop. In which another desperately wants her to. *HELLA GAY* TW s...
