Cigarettes and Butterflies (Incomplete)

Chapter 1: A Stormy Premonition

A loud sigh hits the harsh winter air, the little white wisps of breath swirling to life and dying out quickly like embers. The soft murmur of cars rush past, streaks of harsh high beam light staining the soft atmosphere of this gentle night.

Everything should be perfect with a night this beautiful, but my thoughts are loud, and my depression is louder. Those thoughts often take over when I'm alone. Most of the time it all builds up and threatens to give me a migraine, but on some days, they leave me so quickly it's almost a surprise I even remember anything. It should frustrate me, but I don't let it. There's no point.

I reach a gloved hand into my jacket pocket, the dark gray coloring nearly blending in with the fabrics black hue. I feel a box brush against my fingers almost instantly, I grab onto it and fish it out. Carefully fumbling with the thin card-board, I extract a cigarette and place it in between my teeth. A gust of air rushes from my lungs, I barely wince at the sting. Reaching back into my pocket I swap the pack of Marlboros' with the black lighter nestled near the bottom of the soft lining. Smoothing my fingers over the thin plastic, I raise it to the tip of my cigarette and light it routinely.

When urges call, they're abusive. It's not like I don't want to quit, but I don't respect myself enough to try. I keep telling myself maybe one day, but one day is a lot farther than I thought.

More cars drive by quickly, the blurs of color almost invisible to my unfocused eyes. Against the chilling breeze of the winter night, I can barely feel the soles of my sneakers hitting the ground. I take a deep intake of breath and relish in the feeling of the nicotine smoke in my lungs. For a moment it's like the constant numb that plagues my body disappears.

Gently, I blow the cloud of poisonous air through my nose and continue my walk in solemn silence. I take another long drag and allow the forbidden questions and feelings to fill my head like so many nights and days before.

How long has it been since the incident?

I gently tap the center of my cigarette while I do a mental check.

I would say it's been a little over three years. I already asked myself this question the night before, and the night before that one, and the night before that. It's such a repetitive thing at this point that's it should be written on a to-do list. My psychiatrist says it's a coping method and I'm inclined to believe her.

Oh, if only she knew.

I carefully raise my free hand to my mouth and cough into my open palm, the mixture of smoke and dry December air itching the back of my throat. My whole body convulses with the action, making my spine arch forward and ache. I clear my throat after the small fit is over and instinctively wipe my hands across the thigh of my jeans.

I decide to focus on the sound of my heavy footsteps while I switch to thinking of something else. Something less painful and maybe a little more helpful. A couple things fire through my mind, each a little duller than the last. A list of TV shows I have yet to watch, how much of that loan I have to pay off this month, my shift at work, dinner.

I slow my walking slightly and incline my head to look up at the cloudy and darkened sky.

Yeah, dinner sounds like something healthy to think about.

I take the now burnt out cigarette in between my gloved fingers and shake it to rid it of any of the excess ashes.

I suppose I could make something simple like a green salad or maybe go a little more complex and go for that pasta dish I wanted to try. Penne All-something? I feel myself beginning to slip into deep thought, trying to remember what the dish was called. Something to do with tomato?