Smoke and Mirrors
By: Bay, 6th grade
He sat on the front steps of the apartment building, inhaling nicotine from a cigarette along with the putrid fog that covered the city; emitted from the vile smokestacks from the nearby power plant.
Another cigarette closer to death…He thought morbidly, and gave a grim smile. What was this; his 7th cigarette since coming out here about 45 minutes ago? It wasn’t as if it mattered. He was probably going to die soon, anyways. The police were after him for alleged drug use and distribution. He would rot in prison for the rest of his life. At least; that’s what he preferred to think.
The pessimist gave a sigh, exhaling a small cloud of smoke. Though it wasn’t the idea of prison that would kill him. Nor the cigarettes, the drugs, or the prison itself.
Love.
Love would kill him. The sheer idea of knowing that out there in the world was someone who loved him no matter what happened to him after he had a bad day, or what he did to himself to get rid of the pain of life; that would be what would kill him. He knew that he could stand the loneliness of prison, the terror of knowing that he would be locked up for most likely the rest of his life.
But knowing that love would not be there frightened him. Love would be off on its own, no one to fend for it. No one to mend it if its heart happened to be broken. He knew only he could do that. No one else.
He adjusted his position on the stairs, and once again inhaled the foggy air. He would wait here on these exact stairs for the police to find him. He wouldn’t need to get kicked out for not paying his rent, either. He tossed his half-finished cigarette on the step below his, and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. He only wished he could ground out his troubles just as easily. Sadly, that was impossible.
The fog of the air seemed to burn his lungs worse than the smoke. Seems like this would be something his lungs would never get used to. It seemed to settle in his eyes, causing them to water; and tears to leak out. Or maybe it was something else. He preferred the fog idea. He would not succumb to crying; and even if he did, he would never admit it.
The love was tearing at his heart, and causing him to cry. It seemed preposterous. He hadn’t cried since childhood; when he was 9 years old. The tears had just seemed to run out after a while. After his parents had died; it seemed as though nothing else could compare to anything that sad. And now, 12 years later, he was crying. He felt as though he had failed himself.
He looked up at the smokestacks, at the clouds of smog that hung almost melodramatically over the city like some sort of noxious gas. Then again, it practically was noxious gas. Every resident of the city had at least some sort of lung issue; be it asthma or lung cancer. All due to the fog.
His hair lay around his head as he looked up at the sky; the tears rolling ever so slowly down his cheeks. The smoke stacks seemed so peaceful; so at ends with the world. They knew they could never change their fate. He knew he could never change his.
He closed his eyes for a few moments, and gave a deep sigh. The street was empty. No cars came past. They all sat dormant in front of the apartments that were crowded next to each other on that particular street and area of the city. He opened his eyes again, and his vision seemed hazy. Maybe all the smokes and drugs had done a number on his vision. The fog seemed distant; as though it wasn’t surrounding him in a cloud.
He gave a small smile, and reached for another cancer stick to ease his addiction. At least he could die smoking. Then maybe he would be at least a little happier. Alas, as he reached for a cigarette, his fingers felt only air. The box was empty. His smile remained as he tossed the box onto the pavement. He leaned back again, and closed his cloudy eyes.
When the police finally found him, his eyes never opened. And nearby, on the ground, they found one un-smoked cigarette.