My smoke filled the air, flowing up into the sky. Cigarettes were relatively new to me, however smoking them seemed to have become more of a routine rather than desire. I knew the drill – I’d come home, and my dad had something to say about me – and it was never good, so I’d leave the house, and smoke for hours on end by the beach.
“Why were you up until 2 last night working, Jim?” That was his question today. I sigh. “Listen Dad,” I start, my voice shaking. “I really want to get into this engineering college in London… I’ve checked prices so I’m going to apply for a scholarship and-”
“NO, JIM.” My father stood up, throwing the remote control onto the ground. You are going to Harvard for Law. No son of mine will ever become an engineer.” I take a deep breath in. I stare at him, a new surge of confidence rushed over me. His green eyes were angry and wide, and I could see the veins in his forehead. “Well,” I say steadily. “I guess I’m no son of yours.”
I exhale my cigarette. The hurt and pain was slowly burying itself back down into my heart and soul – not so blatantly obvious, but still demanding to be felt. That’s what I like about cigarettes. They’re like pain. The smoke drifts up into the sky, slowly twisting and turning. The smoke disappears, but you could still smell it all around you and on your clothes. It hadn’t vanished, it was still there. Just like pain. At this point in my life, I felt that only the smoke from the cigarettes made me feel that I wasn’t the only person in the world with pain that refused to go away.
Cigarettes, I think. Thank you.