Fox-bitten cigarettes.

*contains: substance abuse, implied SH/suicide*

You'd been watching from the road side, the night he appeared.

There was a fox, its fur soaked in the rain, its snout covered in a mixture of dirt and blood.

It was chewing at its foot - which was caught in a drain.

It must have slipped in the current of water that ran down the road.

You'd always loved animals.

But you'd also always been a coward.

He ran across the road in front of you. Falling to his knees, not afraid to soak his trousers, to tear them, he'd set to work freeing the animal.

You had taken a step forward, trying to convince yourself if it came down to it, you'd save him. Unlike the fox, he was human, one of your own.

Of course you'd save him.

But as a car approached, you took a step back.

It passed in front of you, not sharing the side of the road with him but the one closer to you.

Once it has passed, you re-gained your focus on him. He pried the fox free, and it tried to bite him in return.

Maybe that's why you hadn't jumped into the road heroically, you'd have only been thanked with blood dripping down your face or arm or hand.

He stood from his spot, sprinting through the rain towards you. A car passed where he'd been knelt moments ago.

He offered you the politest smile you'd ever seen from a person who had just been moments away from death.

Then he held out a pack of cigarettes, you raised an eyebrow, always one to judge.

But you took one, interested in what he had to say.

He didn't say anything of course. Simply lighting your cigarette, before moving on to his own.

The rain caused his thumb to slip and his hand trembled, he'd spark the lighter, but almost drop it before the flame caught properly.

His hair dripped rain into his eyes.

You tried to cover up it was the first time you'd ever smoked. Coughing awkwardly into your jumper.

Your eyes scanned him up and down. He laughed nervously, tucking the lighter away. Then turned, moving in the opposite direction of any housing, and instead towards the woods.

The next week, you'd been walking back from work. You worked in a café in the middle of a crappy national park.

You looked up, to see him across the road again. He wasn't on the path, but instead in the grass, hissing slightly as a thorn caught on his leg.

He looked up to see you, like he'd know you were there, and smiled.

He waved awkwardly, then unstuck his leg from the thorn bush.

You waved back, but he wasn't looking at you anymore.

You'd thought you should return last week's favour. And crossed the road, looking anxiously both ways first. You pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He'd gotten you immediately addicted and you, forever the cliché, told yourself you could quit any time.

He laughed, taking one, and pulling out his own lighter.

His voice broke through the woosh of cars driving by,

"I really thought you'd never smoked before the other day. No offence."

You hid your surprise at the slightly high-pitched nature of his voice. And replied with some wishy-washy comment, that wasn't a lie, but not wholly the truth either.

He nodded, once more so polite, and thanked you for the smoke.

'smoke' he had said, not cigarette. It had made you again arch a brow, because his accent was formal, but every piece of language he used conflicted it.

He nodded again, maybe at you, or himself, or the fox. Then he'd left, walking deeper into the wood, smoking as he went.

You watched for a moment, then carefully crossed back over to your side of the road.

And then you'd stopped seeing him. Every walk from home, you'd look up, eyes scanning his side of the road.

You'd kept searching, till one day you forgot to.

It wasn't till your last year in school that you saw him again. October break, a sharp wind catching your hair.

You were again walking home, the colder months meaning you had your phone flashlight blaring into the surrounding darkness.

The light caught the misty rain, light drops settling on your jacket and face.

You'd looked across the road, and saw him, shorts soaked, t-shirt stuck to his skin.

He was by a lamppost, that was buried among the trees on the pavement, it had stopped working years ago, and so he blended into the black.

It was the awkward smile on his face, caught by your light, that made you remember him clearer.

You carefully raised your hand, waving at him. He'd waved back.

You'd yelled across the road, asking if he was alright, did he need a smoke?

He shook his head, and mouthed a thank you.

You nodded, hesitantly, but as cowardly as usual, continued home.

Clutching the box of cigarettes in your pocket.

You didn't realise for a while that the water on his face wasn't from the rain.

And the blood on his arms hadn't been formed by the thorns.

Nor fox bites.

You hadn't realised till his image appeared at the top of a news site on your laptop. You'd smiled, surprised, until you saw the headline.

You paused, re-freshed the page, and continued job hunting.

The box of cigarettes remained on your windowsill, you'd quit the next day. It stayed there till you moved, and 'forgot' to pack them.

And when the rain pelted against your shared house at university, and you looked out the glass garden door. You had let out a small gasp at the fox, staring back. It limped away, not once holding your gaze, returning to the woods.

*I have 17 words till this is up to word count. There are 2 daddy long legs in my room. it is two Am. I need to get up in three hours. One just flew into my face. Help.*