Just One More

She would promise, “After this, I’m done. No more.” Those were lies. When people intervene and take away the one thing she loves the most, she vows to get it back even if it killed her. She’s dealing with pain. The pain of withdrawal.

She lay there, curled up in the fetal position, shaking. Sweating. Hyperventilating. She needed a cigarette.

And she needed one now.

She could remember the sweet and smooth taste of the nicotine that she enjoyed twelve times a day. The taste of stale smoke, still lingering on her lips. She didn’t shower, still wanting to smell the faintest scent of a cigarette. She looked down through beady eyes to her unkempt nails, admiring the nicotine stains on them. She contemplated sucking them off at times, but she admired the sight too much to do so.

Damn it, where was that cigarette? Not with her, that was for sure.

“AHH!” She randomly screamed out in frustration. Withdrawal was hell. Damn near everything she looked at, she saw a cigarette. The remote control to the cable box, the kitchen sink faucet, even the couch! That’d be a wonder to smoke.

Yes, she was addicted. Well it’d be kind of hard not to be addicted after smoking nonstop for thirty years. People swore she would hack up tar one day.

It didn’t start out this way. At first, a cigarette or two would get her through the day. But back then, smoking was considered a fad, so she started out trying to be cool at seventeen. She was cool, but she had her head on her shoulder. She was going places. She had an early admission to Harvard, she was going to be something.

Thirty years later…

Thirty years later and here she was, reduced to a mentally unstable addict. She was at the end of her rope. She needed a cigarette. A promise is a promise, right? Screw promises. Yes, she promised her children that she’d stop smoking. Yes, she promised herself that she would stop smoking. She promised herself that she wouldn’t be like her mother and smoke herself into an early grave.

And yet, that’s what she dreamed of doing right now.

She looked once again through her still beady eyes and spotted something long, and thin on the ground.

Oh thank the lord. It was a cigarette.

She used her all of her strength to get on all fours and crawl over to the one thing that she craved the most. Her best friend. Hell, her lover.

She was crawling… and crawling, although still shaking, her arms about to give out on her from being weak and undernourished. She hadn’t eaten in four days.

“Come to mama,” she whispered shakily, still crawling. She was imagining the sweet taste on her lips once more, the feel of the cigarette being held in between her index and middle finger, the taste of the smoke in her mouth after inhaling. Well, she wouldn’t for long. She’d be living it.

She finally reached the cigarette as she reached out for it, only for her to grasp nothing but air, her fingernails scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. She couldn’t be imagining this again. She couldn’t.

She grasped out for the object again, only to grasp nothing. She breathed heavily, to the point of excessive hyperventilation.

“No…No…NO! I NEED YOU! I FUCKING NEED YOU AND YOU’RE NOT HERE? I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” she continued to scream until her throat was raw, her head throbbing, drenched in sweat.

And then she saw another cigarette. And another one. And another one. Sooner than later, she was surrounded in a pool of cigarettes. She tried to claw at the cigarettes, begging in her mind for one of them to be real. None of them were.

“Why do you hate me? Why?” She asked, while looking up towards her ceiling. “WHY?! I SERVED YOU ALL OF MY LIFE, AND YOU WON’T LET ME HAVE A CIGARETTE?” she yelled out before crying hysterically.

There was nothing she could do. All of those, “this is my last cigarette” promises were a lie. They were a lie and she was paying for them. She was being tortured. And she couldn’t handle it.

She was going to do what she had to do. She crawled over to her desk drawer, where all of her important things were. She pulled out a bottle of Oxycodone and a .45mm hand gun. She wasn’t going to put herself through this anymore. She was weak, and everyone knew it.

She emptied the pills into her hand, making sure all of them were in her hand, and swallowed them down without a second thought. She waited a bit to let the medicine course through her system. She felt herself becoming weary and reached for the gun before she completely blacked out. She placed the gun to her head and felt her index finger on the trigger. The pills were really taking a toll on her. And with one pull of a trigger, boom.

She was dead.

--END ONESHOT—

I’m not in a particularly good mood right now. This is the result. Hope you liked.