Memories of Smoke

Smoke. Intoxicating, suffocating, a killer wrapped in paper. It’s a metaphorical noose, death playing the long game to get it’s prize. It does more harm than good, shapeless and formless, and in a way, not totally lifeless. One day, it will kill you. How many times have I heard that?

“Do you want to die? How many more attacks do you need to get, before you’re rattled enough to stop?”

“You’re going to kill me with this stress! Is that what you want?”

“Why put a warning on the package, if people like you just ignore it?”

“Why do i even bother with you?”

“I hate you!!”

“Those things will kill you. Kill you dead. At this point though, i might prefer that.”

Mother…

Mother. Hold me. Call me your boy, your son, your sunshine. What i’d give for your love again. Wrap me in fresh clothes, warm still from the dryer. Spoil me, love me, give me everything you never had. I want that. That sunflower field back home, a fantasy more than a memory. A sunhat in a garden, a warm stew, a memorable radio song, a fresh bruise. You are all those things to me. All that and more than anyone will know.

Blotted out by smoke, my memories are much less than fond of her. Calling her my mother, is an overstatement. I remember her in bruises; in scars and hospital bills. In my bum leg, most of all, kicked in at the kneecap. How did it come down to that?

I pull out of my thoughts for a second, to the crisp and dark. To moonlight blotted out by strangling smoke. I take a deep breath in, calming my nerves for a fleeting second before the coughing sets in. 30 seconds, deep and painful. They heave my chest and sting my throat, painful to the point of unfortunate familiarity. They end soon enough, and leave me to the soothe of the cool evening air. I lean against the railing, tapping embers off on the metal. A pile has collected on the ground by my feet, old and staining on the wood board. All i do is add to it, whenever i’m out here. Too often, i’d say, that pile grows. It’s like clockwork, every night, for one reason or another.

1 month ago, started by a pink slip. A week ago, embarrassment in the park. Yesterday, simply the lack of food in the fridge. Most of the time, it’s just restlessness. On those normal days, it’s just one, just until the moon hits the tips of the trees on it’s way up. On bad days, a whole pack. Tonight, it’s nightmares. Paralyzing, all too real, monster-like nightmares. Memories that leave me tossing and turning in the night, that lead to a towel on the sheets, for the sweat. Night-memories of anxiety, and pain, and too familiar darkness, brought on by closed cellar doors. 2 packs tonight. I already finished 1, but the shake in my hands lead me to pull out more than necessary.

I watch the smoke rise into blue, the deep essence of the night. A blue so deep, it hides the smoke from my eyes as it rises higher. I grumble at a thought, and turn my eyes down. Jealousy, perhaps, or maybe more a form of envy. To escape. Escape from what, i’m not sure. Possibly just from myself. Escape from my shitty habits, and my shitty head, and my shitty leg. Maybe it’s just that i’m tired.

I find it hard to sleep on such a soft bed. It’s too comfortable, too kind, too warm. Starch sheets and springboard mattresses bring the most comfort. Probably a comfort drawn by innocence. Before bruises and shouting. Before smoke. Before, when sunflower fields weren’t a world away. Longing, wanting, a pit in my chest so heavy it hurts. The more i think about that field, the more it grows. Larger, heavier, until it drags my heart to the depths. What will kill me first? The smoke, or the depths? Or will it simply be my own hand that takes me first?

I pause at a warmth, unexpected and soft. Hands glide across my shoulders, brushing the sides of my neck with gentle thumbs, until they reach my front. Slow fingers ease the cigarette from my lips and douse it in the ash tray. I don’t resist. I don’t even complain. I’m too focused on the warmth. He knows. He always knows. It’s like he has a sixth sense, just for “Leo-mares”, as he calls them.

Micah’s palms press against my collarbone, pulling me back, away from the railing. I worry about support, but he has me, just as the railing did. I let out a soft sigh, opening my mouth to speak. I want to explain, apologize, get something out. But i choke on words like i choke on smoke, unable to breathe and dizzy. Only small breaths or sounds leave my throat, beginnings of words that don’t make it out. I’m nervous. He can tell.

“Shhh,”

His voice is as gentle as his hands, and i relax, a little. I ease into him a bit, let myself lean back. I tremble slightly, eyes darting to the ash pile on the floor. I stare, quietly, as if somehow focusing on something will keep me calm.

“Come to bed,”

He whispers that into my shoulder blades, tired face pressed into my shirt as he tries to stay awake. My skin prickles with guilt, knowing i woke him, worried him, bothered him. Each pin prick makes me feel worse. I wish i was alone with my cigarettes, again.

He pulls me back a bit, leading me inside and out of the cold air. I almost hear the wind breathe a goodbye, but the door is closed before i can hear it. I expect Micah to drag me to bed, lay me down in silence for a minute before tells me to apologize. He won’t shout, but i’ll wish he would. I’ll brace for hits, hide my head under my hands, and stay silent to lessen his anger. If he tires quickly, he’ll sleep quickly, and i can treat the wounds quicker. If things get fatal, the window is always an option-

My well crafted battle plan is interrupted by a hand on my cheek, soft and protective. It pulls me back, back to the bedroom. My eyes fly open only to be met with Micah’s gentle, squishy face and bright blue hair. His eyeshadow is smudged on one side, smeared across his eye and temple, as if he slept with it on. Under it, though, is reassurance. Only reassurance. It’s soothing.

Only now do i notice how quickly i was breathing. Micah seems afraid i might hyperventilate.

“I’m not her.” He whispers, voice gentle, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “You’re safe, love,”

I slow myself, breaths shaky as he strokes my cheek. He’s right. He’s not her, he’s not in my nightmares. Not now, not ever. I give a desperate look, vulnerable, and rare. I hardly ever show it to him so freely, but tonight, i feel i need him.

“Micah…” My voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath out of my lips. “Please…”

He nods, understanding so much from so few words, and takes my hands. I feel almost breathless at how gentle he is, amazed every time. He only is at night, though that’s enough for me. In the day, his bluntness is almost as refreshing as his softness is at night.

He leads me to bed, pulls me under thick wool covers, and pulls my head down to his chest. Beating drums play under his skin, rhythmic and soothing. I close my eyes, fingers running through my hair in time with the beats. Warm, soft, soothing, that’s what he is to me. My memories of *him* are clear as day, filtered through my smoke-messed head.

I fear for more nightmares, as sleep takes my eyes once more, but his sleepy-time breathing reassures me of my safety, long until and after i drift away. He waits for me, eyes never closing before mine, breaths never slowing before mine.

I wish i could say i never smoked in my life, i wish i could say i can quit. Even if i did quit, throw the cig away and never turn back, i think i’d still be an addict. An addict to Micah, my crutch, my smoke. Micah, my only comfort, my only good dreams.