Sparks

Trigger warnings: physical abuse and substance abuse.

Addicted to cigarettes—that’s what they wrote on my file, and if you didn’t know me, you’d think it was true. I do not smoke. Have never smoked. I promise you, and I will prove it—just listen.

I’m a cleanfreak, always have been. Almost. When I think back at my childhood, the old stench of the house gets stuck in my nose. Mold infested walls and sheets with a higher piss-percentage than feather-percentage. I remember nights where my pores would marinate the corpselike smells, and schooldays where kids would pinch their noses as I passed.

After years of living as the school's sewer rat I decided to clean my life. It started out slow. I wasn’t allowed to take consistent baths because of water bills, hence why I washed myself in the river in the woods with soap from dispensers at public toilets. I snatched fabric from the arts and crafts room at our school, creating my own blankets to tuck myself in at night. It worked. Kids stopped pinching their noses, yet I was never completely satisfied, it was ingrained into the base structure of my brain, and as I became older I resorted to more drastic measures. I formed habits: Scraping the dirt from underneath my nails shortening them bit by bit. Digging out the my pores with needles that at times punctured my vessels. But the void was as hungry as ever, always needing to find new ways of drowning out the stench. Until I found the sparks.

It started with an end. We’d been on four dates already, and on the fifth I took her home. She was perfect. Kept her hair tied up in a tight bun, and bathing in smells of clean clothes and fruity perfumes. Also, an underlying smell I hadn't place yet, adding to an aura of mystique that followed with vigilant brown eyes that sucked in all light. The sex was good, no doubt, but as she lit a cigarette by the window fury took over me and I slapped her. The cigarette fell out of her hand, and we watched it fall down the three floors of my apartment and hit the gravel like fireworks. Fireworks... that's what it looked like. She was startled. I was startled. She said nothing and I never saw her face, but I felt her abhorrence radiate towards me in piercing waves. I remained in position in awe for I-don’t-know-how-long. All I dared do was stare into the dark that had just shown me new light. It felt weird. My body wasn't mine, and I don’t know if it was because I had just slapped a woman, or if it was because I’d found pleasure in the moment. She left in a hustle and forgot her pack of cigarettes.

I let the pack remain on the windowsill for days, not wanting to throw it away for reasons I yet didn’t understand. By the fifth day of it lying there I opened it to see seven of them still in a neat stack. I paused. Would it be okay for me to light one? To see the sparks once more and prove I wasn't some sick psychopath. I wondered. But cigarettes let out stalking stenches, and I better let it be. Two more days, and the sparks were still in my head. At nights the moment haunted me, refusing to let me know the roots of the euphoric sensation.

That night I gave in. And for the first time in my life, I lit a cigarette. The spark exploded on the ground and my body became calm, leaving mt head with a rushing sensation.

Two half burnt cigarettes lay on the ground underneath my window. In the light of the sun they would taunt me every passing day, almost speaking to me, begging me to add to the collection.

I gave in on bad days. Days of nagging, unfinishable work with absurd deadlines. I’d drop one from my window, let my body excite, telling myself it would be the last. But as stressful days ran in, more cigarettes dropped, and after a while it became ingrained in my routine. Every morning and every night after healthy meals I’d bring a cup of tea to my bedroom window to enjoy with a cigarette. Or two. Or five. Or I-don’t-even know-at-this-point. I light it. Watch it glow. Then watch it explode on top on the mad hill that has grown from burnt out cigarette stubs.

Every spark became dimmer than the last. The rushing sensation in my head had disappeared long ago, and it is now the only thing that makes me normal. Every moment without is a void bigger than the one I initially tried to fill.

An end to a bad thing is always good. The end of a bad year, the end of a troubling relationship, and the end of the light from a cancer-stick. And after a while, I began to see my new spending habits nibble from my rent. A pack a-day, maybe two on weekends.

I stank of smoke. The smell had dried into my pores and tended to stick out from underneath tens of perfume sprays. I tried washing out the smell, but no matter how hot the water, or how strong the soap, the smell clenched to my pores. I stopped smiling to hide the yellowing of my teeth and barely spoke with friends in fear that my tongue would push out rotten air. Worst of all was the one thing I couldn't hide: my nails. The black haunting streaks, once spotless, are now my greeting to every new companion.

I don’t recognize myself anymore. The person I once was, is now just another figure children pinch their noses at as I pass. I’m now the creature that can't look a woman in the eye in fear that she might see a flash revealing my violence. The gap between me and a monster is closing in. Am I some sick sadist replaying the moment in my head for spark? I wouldn’t know.

I tried to quit. Failed. Tried again. Failed. And then again. And then another again. And then another again, again. Until words stopped carrying meaning and sentences became repeating lies. Every time I closed my eyes the darkness behind my eyelids reminded me of the cold emptiness without the sparks drawing me back to the warmth of a flame.

So now you see; I do not smoke, yet I’m addicted to cigarettes. And that’s why I’m here, with you, doctor. Please, do something, anything, to get me away from the sparks I wish I never got to know.