It had been a month since he left me.  It was a cold September morning, and I was frustrated because I couldn’t find my black lighter.  I was no fun to talk to until I had my morning cigarette. I shuffled across my room to my bag and emptied it out on my bed. After a vigorous shaking, I tossed my bag to the side, and looked through its fallen remains. A pencil, gum, earphones, an old crumpled up Halls paper, a water bottle, and under a notebook layed my little Bic.  “Gotcha,” I triumphed.

I ran to open my window because mother would never approve of me smoking my “cancer sticks,” as she would call them, in her precious household.  As i opened the window a heavy breeze hit my face leaving a trail of goosebumps down my neck all the way to my arms.

“Jesus,” I muttered, as I made my way to the closet to grab my favourite hoodie.  As I pulled my primitive skateboard hoodie over my head, everything went black, and I was warm. I wish I could stay in that state forever, enjoying all the warmth and darkness. Revealing my face to the light of my window, I grabbed my lighter and took out a “Quebec Classic King-Size” and placed the cott in my mouth.  It takes a couple flicks, but once I’ve got the flame, I felt a little ounce of pride as I inhaled my remedy, and instantly felt safe. I tried to hold it in as long as I could, but the sensation of choking made me exhale. I see the smoke leave my mouth and enter the cold atmosphere. I stop before putting the tip of the cott in my mouth again, and imagined my younger self looking up at me at that exact moment.

A wave of regret, anxiety, and disappointment crashed into me, letting my head fall into my hands in disbelief. How did I get to this? I couldn’t live without my pack. I was ashamed of what I had let myself become. But it wasn’t my fault. Was it? He influenced me, made me feel wanted, and that it was ok to be this. But after he broke me, the situation was worse. I was falling into a deep spiral and I couldn’t see the end of it. I look up to watch my cigarette and saw that it had already smoked itself up halfway through. I flick it to let the ash fall and took another puff. Who cares, I told myself. Nobody gave a flying f*** about me, let alone my mental stability. Might as well finish my chag, maybe it’ll help quicken the process of my death.