Love Suicide

Love Suicide
“That will be 4 bucks and fifteen cents,” the bored clerk said with a yawn as he lazily tossed the pack of cigarettes onto the counter, the black box shining like the freshly polished wood of a coffin. “You know these things can kill you, right?”

“No, I was convinced the damn things make my lungs expel rainbows and unicorns,” Amy shot back with a smirk, earning a very annoyed look as she handed him a crisp five-dollar bill. “Look, I appreciate the concern, really, I do. But, I am well aware of exactly what I’m putting on my body, ok?”

The clerk just shrugged, dropping Amy’s change into her open hand and yawned again. “Whatever,” he answered, going back to watch the tiny TV next to the register. “It’s your life.”

“That it is.” Amy gave him a slight smile, grabbing her box and walking out of the store into the cool August air. She trotted past the tired families refilling their empty tanks after hours of monotonous driving and the gaggle of black-clothed teens who glared at her balefully as she passed, but Amy ignored them, savoring the night air. All she wanted to do was get back to her small apartment and open her new pack of Nails 100’s in a box.

Within ten lazy minutes, Amy was walking inside her building, hurrying up the stairs and practically throwing open her door. Tossing her keys and jacket onto the nearby
countertop, she flopped onto her tiny couch, pushing her dark bangs out of her eyes as she quickly pulled the shiny plastic off of the pack. She opened it and inhaled deeply, a smile on her lips as the faint scent of nicotine caressed her senses. God, it had been too long since she had last had a cancerous stick, and her entire body was trembling with excitement.

The cigarette was firm like a breathing tube yet the surface was as rubbery as a latex glove. Amy flicked her lighter open, seeing the shadow of the Reaper out of the corner of her eye as she lit the tip and inhaled. The first drag was sweet sin on her lips, the taste of the nicotine crawling up her spine like dead fingers. In the dimly lit room, the cherry seemed to burn like a funeral pyre, a skull appearing in the smoke like a macabre brand.

When she inhaled again, the cigarette crackled like the sound of footsteps on a cold hospital floor. Ashes fell and withered away, a few painting her legs a sickly gray. For a split second, her fingers gripped the filter like they were struck with rigor mortis, but Amy relaxed, inhaling again. This drag was too strong and quick, and she coughed as shards of glass felt like they were tearing into her lungs. Still, Amy quickly recovered, glaring at the wall briefly before cursing softly.

The cherry had gone out like the false light at the end of a tunnel, quietly burning out like a last breath. Unlit and half-smoked, the cigarette was as black as the night, but the coffin logo on the filter was as white as a skull. “Bastard,” she cursed softly, lighting it again and inhaling. With every drag, she tasted death on her lips, the whispers of cadavers tingling her ears. The smoke assaulted her eyes, burning like lemon juice, but
she just ignored the pain, focused on finishing.

This is killing me, she thought with a hint of irony and a half-smile, knowing that the coffin logo seemed to glow as bright as a dying sun the closer she got to the filter. Sad part is that I am completely aware and at peace with this… By now, the cigarette didn’t taste as good as it did the first time, seeming to have lost its charm. As suddenly as the deadly urge had gripped Amy, it was gone, and all she saw was a paper wrapped around dead plants. Sickened, she crushed it like a doctor would pull the plug away from life support. Her lungs and chest burned, but she did actually feel sated for once.

Yes, Amy was done.  At least until the urge whispered seductively in her ear, and she would smoke her life away one drag at a time.