The Smoking Room

I am sure it used to be here. Shit, there can’t be much of my break left. This is ridiculous. I get little enough free time as it is. Hell, one corridor looks just like another in this place.

They’ve moved it again. They must have done. We used to have a proper smoking room with soft chairs and a water cooler, kettle, fridge and stuff. It’s no more than we’re entitled to. I know some people don’t smoke. I get that. But it’s about freedom of choice, isn’t it. You can choose whether you smoke or not. We won’t inflict our smoking on you. We’ll smoke in our own space. Management have always given us a space. They understand. We have our rights and we deserve our freedom of choice. It used to be next to the staff room. Then it was by the perimeter wall with an extract fan. Nice yellow paintwork.

I know smoking isn’t good for you. For me. Or you. It’s unhealthy. It makes you cough. Lots of people say we shouldn’t smoke. Thing is, I need my ciggies. People can’t understand if they aren’t smokers. They tell us we should give up but they don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like for us.

It’s OK really. I’ve smoked for years and I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. My grandad was fine too, smoked all his life, started when he was ten. Lived to be 88. Anyone can get cancer. Doesn’t mean you made it happen yourself. He was unlucky. My nan said he wasn’t himself at the end. Bad luck, I reckon. He was coughing up blood. Must have been a burst blood vessel or something. All over the bedspread. He hadn’t smoked for ages before he died so it can’t have been that. Anyway, they said the cancer couldn’t get any worse. It was stage four, they said. That was a good few weeks before he died. It must have been something else that took him. Maybe his heart. Perhaps one of those aneurysms where anyone can just drop dead. That’ll be it. He couldn’t help it. He was fine; we talked about the football and then he just changed his face, wasn’t him, white as a sheet then all this fucking blood poured out of his mouth and he tried to say sorry and he fell back on his pillow and he was all white and still.

The dreams are the worst. They keep coming back. I’ll find that bloody smoking room in a minute. It’s along here somewhere. I know it is. The dreams aren’t real. Nobody’s really like that. The coughing that won’t stop and the hot bright red sick. It’ll go away. The nurses think I can’t hear them. They ought to be sacked for the stuff they say. Of course I’ll get better. It’s only a cough, for fuck’s sake. Checks every fifteen minutes? Justifying their own existence if you ask me. OK, so I dirtied the top sheet. Nosebleed or something. You have to expect that in hospital. It’s fine. They’ll bring me a clean one.

What day is this? Must be mid week because I’m in school and I’ve just taught a class and I need a fucking smoke like I’ve never needed one before. Just a second. I’ll be OK soon. Yes, I can breathe. Stop asking fucking stupid questions, will you? Who are you? What right have you got to question me? Get that fucking thing out of my mouth. You’ve no right. I know my r…

What the fuck happened? Don’t remember anything about the last few minutes. Shit, I’m going for a fag in the basement car park. Sod this lark. Fuck the rules. Their fault for moving the smoking room. Fucking ridiculous.

Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry. Must be a bug. Usually I know when I’m going to throw up but it just came out of the blue. Shit. That looks like blood. Nurse, what’s wrong with me? What have I got? Nurse? NURSE! What’s that noise? Why’s nobody fucking listening to me? Talk to me, for fuck’s sake. It’s as if I fucking wasn’t here.

I think I’ve been in hospital. I remember being in hospital. Why was I in hospital? I’m fine now. The basement is this way. I’ll sit in my car and have a fag. Wait, how do you get down to the basement? Shit, my memory is gone. It’s here somewhere. I know it is.

How did I get back in hospital? I know this is hospital. White sheets and I can smell the hospital disinfectant stuff. It’s cold. I’m cold. And it’s dark. There was a sort of a clang when they put me in here. Maybe they’re cross with me because I threw chunks on the bedspread. That’s not fair. Anyone can get a bug. Probably their rubbish food. And you pick up all sorts of bugs in hospital. They should take more care to stop germs spreading.

I get the impression I’m in a small space. Still cold. Cold and still. I think there is metal a few inches above me. I can smell it. I want to put my hand up to check but my hand won’t move.

When I get out, I promise I’ll do as doctor said. No more ciggies. On my honour.

Oh, thank god, what a relief. I had a nightmare. Or a daymare. Guys, I’m so, so glad to see you. This is going to sound like shit but, you know what, I got confused and I couldn’t find the smoking room. Wandered around for ages but here I am. How ya goin’? Anyone got a ciggie? I think I forgot mine. Left them in the car. Wait, nobody talking? Whoa, no, stop. What’s this? Why y’all comin at me slow, not sayin’ a dicky bird? Guys, guys… This isn’t funny. Stop. Back off, guys. Hey, the Halloween zombie costumes are great but I’m not in the… GUYS!. Joke’s over now, guys. It’s not funny. Just stop. STOP! I’ll…”