The smoking cigarettes are the start of his addiction.
He remembers his mother telling him that smoking would be the death of him if he were to ever start. She had been right about that. In a way.
His mom had begged him, "Yoongi son, don't ever grab one of those death sticks. They'll kill you. They kill everyone around them."
She had made him promise when he was younger, tugging his wrist away from the teenagers that would smoke next to the old and crappy apartments in town.
Yoongi had said okay, but he knew at the back of his mind that the promise was a lie, a fake promise that he would break due to curiosity of being young and to stop the voices in his head.
Yoongi had ignored the warning voice of his mother when he stepped into the convenience store and asked for a pack, the cashier giving him a look of pity. "Those will kill you son."
Yoongi's response had been simple, "Maybe that's what I want."
Yoongi hides the pack in his hoodie pockets, pulling the hood over his head as he blasts out and drowns himself in the music that plays in his ears.
The sounds that play are not the voices of rappers spitting out words, nor are they the death songs about looming depression and the cloud of death.
Instead it's the keys of pianos and singing of the violins that play a sweet and peaceful tune.
People pretend that they know who Yoongi is, all these teachers and adults breaking him apart and labeling him.
But, they don't know, they don't know that the voices in his mind aren't telling him how to live his life. Instead they are the same echoes that he hears at his home.
They think that he'll become some drunken adult who will die from an overdose of pills. A nobody in this world of selfish humans who pretend to be happy.
They think that him wanting to smoke is just to look cool and just add another prop to the boy they've shaped inside of their minds.
They're wrong.
In a cruel and twisted way they are right.
But, Yoongi pretends they aren't. He does that a lot, pretends.
