Shadows of Smoke: How I Found Myself in Cigarettes

 

Keywords: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Marlboro Lights, new beginnings, peer influence, family bond, emotional journey, urban life

It was August 1992 in San Diego, California, a sprawling city of sun-bleached streets and salty air carrying the scent of the Pacific. I was Sophie, 15, a nervous transplant from Omaha, Nebraska, where cornfields stretched endlessly and life moved at a slow, almost stagnant pace. My mom, Karen, had landed a job as a nurse at UCSD Medical Center, uprooting us across the country for her big break—more money, longer shifts, a fresh start after my dad walked out two years earlier, leaving behind just an old suitcase and an emptiness we never talked about. That morning, my first day at Westview High loomed like a dark cloud. “Sophie Marie, get down here now or you’ll miss the bus!” Mom shouted from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the clink of coffee mugs. I heard the flick of her lighter, the deep drag on her Camel Wide, and the soft hiss as she exhaled. She’d been smoking since I was a kid, a habit I knew well but had never touched—I’d never wanted to.

---

The Old Me: Judging from Afar

Back in Omaha, I’d pass the smokers outside school almost every day. They’d gather in a corner of the parking lot, leaning against rusted cars or sitting on curbs, wearing beat-up denim jackets, puffing smoke into the freezing air. I’d wrinkle my nose, the wind carrying that acrid smell of burnt tobacco, and think: How can they do that to themselves? So weak. I was the girl with straight As, always clutching my clarinet case under my arm, the student who showed up at parent-teacher conferences with a shy smile while teachers sang my praises. My mom would warn me constantly: “Don’t you dare start, Sophie,” she’d say, blowing out a cloud of Camel smoke as if it were the most natural thing, while I’d nod, smug in my moral superiority. My lungs were my pride, an untouched fortress, and I wore that certainty like a badge.

San Diego, though, was a different world. Everything felt bigger—the wide streets, the gleaming buildings, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. As I trudged downstairs that morning, dressed in new Levi’s and a faded Nirvana T-shirt I’d snagged at a thrift store in Omaha, I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and grumbled, “I’m coming, geez.” Mom stubbed out her cigarette in a chipped ashtray on the sink, the sharp scent of tobacco lingering in the small kitchen of our rented apartment. She snatched her keys, slung a worn leather purse over her shoulder, and we headed out. “You’ll do fine, Soph,” she said, trying to reassure me as she drove, the radio playing a low hum of Fleetwood Mac. She lit another Camel, cracked the window, and smoke trailed out in white wisps against the blue sky. “New school, new friends. It’ll be good for you.” I stared out at the teenagers spilling from cars and skateboards, tanned and confident, so unlike the pale, reserved faces of Nebraska. Near the school entrance, I spotted three girls lounging on a bench—long legs crossed, short skirts, lips glossy with shine—each holding a lit cigarette. Pathetic, I thought, my old judgment flaring up. “Have a good day,” Mom called as I stepped out, but my mind was already elsewhere, grappling with how I’d fit into this loud, dazzling place.

---

A New Friend: The First Spark

Inside, a sign read “NEW STUDENTS.” I gave my name to the clerk, who waved over a girl with an easy smile and a messy ponytail. “Hi, I’m Tara,” she said, her voice brimming with energy. “Sophomore, like you. I’m your orientation buddy.” She wore a cropped tank top and cutoff denim shorts, radiating a laid-back cool I secretly envied. “Thanks,” I muttered, still shy. “Call me Sophie.” We had English and history together, and Tara stuck by me all day, chattering nonstop about teachers, the watery cafeteria mac and cheese, and the campus shortcuts. At lunch, we sat at a corner table, and she pointed out the trio I’d seen earlier. “That’s Lauren, Mia, and Jess—the ‘Golden Girls,’” she said, rolling her eyes with a half-smile. “They’re the queens around here—perfect hair, perfect boyfriends, always smoking Marlboro Lights like it’s part of the vibe.” I smirked. “Sounds dumb.” Tara shrugged. “It’s exclusive. You don’t join—they pick you.”

After class, Tara walked me to the bus stop. We stopped by a tree along the way, and she rummaged through her backpack, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Lights. She lit one with a quick flick of her lighter, the menthol scent rising in the warm air. “Want a drag?” she asked, exhaling a thin stream. “No way,” I said, stepping back. “My mom smokes, but I don’t.” She grinned. “Not one of those preachy types, are you?” “Nah,” I laughed, loosening up a bit. “Just not my thing.” She took another drag, the smoke swirling around her, and I watched, an unexpected curiosity bubbling up. “What’s it like?” I asked, almost without meaning to. “Kinda harsh at first,” she said, “but then… it’s nice. Calms you down.” She held it out again, the cigarette dangling like an invitation. My heart sped up, hesitating. One drag won’t kill me, I thought, challenging my own resolve. I took it, inhaled lightly, and coughed as the warm, bitter taste caught me off guard. Tara chuckled. “Not bad for a newbie.” I handed it back, shaking my head. Never again, I swore to myself, clearing my throat.

---

Three a Day: The Silent Need

That “never” lasted exactly seven days. Tara kept offering, a casual ritual after school, and by mid-September, I was sneaking three Marlboro Lights a day. At first, it was just to test myself—I’d bum one from her, smoke in the alley behind the school, tucked between the graffiti-scrawled wall and overflowing trash cans, stubbing out the butts under rocks so no one would find them. It was a dare, a way to prove I wasn’t afraid, but it quickly turned into something else. I’d wake up with an odd feeling, an emptiness I couldn’t name, and before I even caught the bus, I’d be thinking about my next cigarette. During break, I’d seek Tara out, snag a Marlboro from her pack, and light it with hands that shook less each time. I’d inhale deeply, the cool menthol filling my chest, and for a moment, everything felt lighter—the homesickness for Omaha, the noise of this new city, the weight of being the “new girl.” At night, I’d smoke in my room, window cracked open, blowing smoke into the darkness while the radio played low. I’d stare at the cigarette and think: How did I let this happen? Me, who’d judged others for weakness, was now hiding my own secret, the smell clinging to my fingers like a confession.

Mom caught me once, out on the apartment patio. I was dragging fast, trying to finish before she got home from her night shift. The gate creaked, and I froze, the Marlboro Light still glowing. “Sophie Marie!” she snapped, her own Camel burning between her fingers. “What the hell is this?” My stomach dropped. “It was just this once,” I lied, my voice cracking. She sighed, crushed her cigarette against the metal railing. “I can’t stop you, but think about it. I started at your age—wish I hadn’t.” She walked inside, leaving me there, heart pounding. Guilt twisted in my chest, a tight knot, but the need pulled stronger. I stubbed out the cigarette and promised myself I’d quit—a promise I already knew I wouldn’t keep.

---

Seven in the Sun: A Teen Smoker’s Life

October rolled in, San Diego’s sun still blazing, and I was up to seven cigarettes a day. I’d save my lunch money, scrounging every dime from loose change, and buy my own packs at a corner gas station—the clerk, a greasy-haired guy in a faded T-shirt, never asked for ID, just pocketed my $4 and slid the Marlboro Lights across the counter. I smoked with Tara’s crew now, girls with chipped nail polish and loud laughs who took me in without a fuss. We’d hang out near the parking lot, leaning against seniors’ cars, swapping stories about boring teachers and parties I never attended. The need was real: mornings without a cigarette left me jittery, hands restless tapping on my desk, mind foggy until I could sneak to the bathroom and light up by the window. I’d stand there, watching the Marlboro burn, the white paper crumbling to ash, asking myself how I’d become one of those people I used to despise. I’m weak, I’d think, the words heavy like lead. But then I’d inhale again, the menthol soothing the storm inside me, and the guilt melted into a comfort I didn’t want to admit.

Mom started to soften too. After dinner, we’d sit on the sagging living room couch, the ceiling fan humming overhead, the TV flickering with “Friends” reruns. She’d light a Camel Wide, I’d grab my Marlboro Light, and we’d smoke together, smoke rising in quiet swirls. “You’re growing up,” she’d say, blowing a smoke ring I’d try—and fail—to copy. It was odd but beautiful—a fragile bond between us, something Omaha never gave us. I’d talk about school, she’d share hospital stories, and the sound of our drags became part of the conversation. “Just don’t let it own you,” she’d warn, but I knew it already did. I’d started keeping a pack in my nightstand, sneaking one before bed, the glow of the cigarette my last sight before sleep. It was my secret ritual, a way to hold onto myself in a city that still felt foreign.

---

Twelve and Hooked: Emotional Journey

Winter came, milder than Nebraska’s brutal cold, and I hit twelve Marlboro Lights a day. I tried quitting once, shaken by a biology class on lung cancer that left me pale. I flushed a pack down the school toilet, watching it swirl away, swearing it was over. By lunch, I was trembling, my body begging, and I rifled through Tara’s backpack for a spare. I found a crumpled one, lit it with sweaty hands, and smoked leaning against the wall, heart racing. Sometimes, I’d go to the beach alone after school, sit in the sand with waves crashing close, the salty wind mixing with my smoke. I’d stare at the horizon, wondering who I’d turned into—not the Omaha girl dreaming of college band anymore, but a teen smoker, chained to a habit I once mocked. Tara caught me smoking solo one day and smirked: “You’re one of us now.” I nodded, the cigarette between my fingers a reflection of me. I stopped fighting—it was who I was.

The need wasn’t just physical anymore. It was in my head, my heart—a crutch for the days I felt lost. I’d smoke on the bus ride home, hiding it from the driver, the window down to mask the smell. I’d smoke when Mom worked late, pacing the apartment, the silence too loud without her. It was my way of coping with Dad’s absence—he’d never sent a letter, not even a call—and the ache of starting over in a place where I was still a stranger.

---

Why It Stayed

Tara lit the first match, Mom made it normal, but I chose to stay. Marlboro Lights filled gaps I didn’t know I had—Dad’s vanishing act, the loneliness of a new city, the pressure to be someone when I didn’t know who that was. It wasn’t just weakness; it was survival, a lifeline for a girl finding her footing in San Diego’s chaos. I used to judge smokers for not seeing that—now I was one of them, and that truth cut deeper than any lecture.

---

Conclusion: A Smoker’s Truth

That year in San Diego remade me. From someone who looked down to someone staring at a cigarette, seeing herself. Have you ever started something you swore you’d never do? Felt a need creep into your soul, quiet and unstoppable? Share your story below—I want to hear you. Loved this journey? Follow the blog for more raw, real tales that hit the heart.

Tags: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Marlboro Lights, new beginnings, peer influence, family bond, emotional journey, urban life, San Diego

From Judgment to Ashes: How I Became a Smoker

 

It was the fall of 1991 in Dayton, Ohio, an industrial city where the gray sky seemed to swallow dreams. I was Mara, 16, a skinny, determined junior at Roosevelt High. My life revolved around books, exams, and my Walkman blaring Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on repeat. Every morning, I’d rush across the school courtyard, past the smokers clustered near the doors. They’d huddle there, shivering in oversized flannel jackets, Newport cigarettes glowing between their fingers, menthol smoke spiraling upward like a sign of surrender. I’d look down at them—head high, both literally and figuratively—thinking: How can they be so weak? So easily addicted? I was different—my lungs were clean, my willpower unbreakable. Or so I believed.

---

Life Before the Smoke: Routine and Pride

My mom, Elaine, worked as a cashier at the Kroger on Main Street. She’d come home at night, worn out, her hands smelling of coins and plastic bags, her eyes sunken from working too hard to cover our two-bedroom apartment’s rent. It’d been just the two of us since I was 9, when my dad left for Toledo with a woman he’d met at a bar. He never sent a Christmas card or called—just vanished, leaving behind a broken Zenith TV and a stack of Elvis records I never played. I prided myself on being the kid who didn’t cause trouble: I’d make dinner (boxed mac and cheese or peanut butter sandwiches most nights), clean the kitchen, and keep my grades up. At school, I was the good girl—the one teachers praised, the one who never hung with the wrong crowd. The smokers in the courtyard? To me, they were the opposite—lazy, sloppy, slaves to a habit I swore I’d never understand.

---

The First Challenge: Peer Influence

Everything shifted on a chilly October afternoon. My best friend, Dana, 17, was one of them now. She was tall, with dyed black hair falling over her eyes, and a defiant edge that had drawn me to her since fifth grade. I was the bookworm who helped her cheat on tests; she was the rebel who dragged me into adventures—like the time we stole candy from the corner store and ran laughing to the park. Lately, she’d picked up smoking, influenced by her older sister, Kelly, a 22-year-old waitress who kept a pack of Newports in her jeans pocket. That day, I was waiting for Dana by the exit to catch the bus together. She lit a Newport, the lighter sparking in her hand, and caught me staring.

“What’s up, Mara? Judging me again?” she teased, blowing a cloud of menthol smoke my way. The smell annoyed me, but I stayed quiet. “Wanna try?” she offered, sliding a cigarette from her pack with a sly grin. “No way,” I shot back, crossing my arms. “That’s for losers.” She shrugged, lit the Newport, and handed it over. “Just once. Prove you’re not scared.”

It wasn’t fear—I thought I was above it. But her taunt hit a nerve, as if refusing made me weak instead. I took it, fumbling with the lighter, my fingers clumsy. I dragged. The menthol scorched my throat, a mix of mint and fire, and I coughed hard, eyes watering. Dana laughed loud. “Keep going,” she said, her eyes gleaming. I dragged again, and a cool wave washed through me—a light buzz, almost comforting. Cigarette addiction breathed its first hello.

---

Three a Day: The Silent Need

Within two weeks, I was swiping three Newports a day from Dana’s pack. At first, it was just curiosity—I’d smoke behind the gym after school, tucked among the bushes, the cold wind stinging my face. I’d stub them out in an old soda can, terrified someone might see. But soon, it shifted. I’d wake up with a dry mouth, a strange restlessness in my chest, thinking about my next cigarette before I even brushed my teeth. It was like my body knew something my mind still denied. I’d snag a Newport from Dana’s backpack during break, light it with shaky hands, and inhale deep, the menthol soothing an anxiety I didn’t know I carried. I’d stare at the cigarette between my fingers and think: How did I get here? Me, who judged others, now hiding my own secret.

Mom almost caught me one night. I was on the porch, smoking quick before she got home from work. I crushed the cigarette on the railing when I heard her key in the door, but the smell lingered. “What’s that stench?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Probably the neighbor,” I lied, heart pounding. She didn’t push, but I knew the risk was growing—along with the need.

---

Seven in Winter: The Teen Smoker

Winter hit hard, and I was up to seven Newports a day. I’d join Dana’s crew outside school, my old disdain fading into an awkward silence. They took me in without a word—I was just another flannel jacket in the crowd, the Newport’s glow between my fingers like a badge. I started buying my own packs at the corner store with money from shelving books at the library. The clerk, a middle-aged guy with a scruffy mustache, never asked for ID—just took my $3 and tossed the pack across the counter.

The need was stronger now. If I didn’t smoke at lunch, I’d get edgy, fingers tapping on my desk, head throbbing until I could duck into the bathroom and light a Newport in secret. I’d stand there, watching it burn, asking myself how I’d fallen so fast. I’m weak, I’d think, the word heavy on my chest. But then I’d drag again, and the world would settle—the menthol my comfort, my escape from Dayton’s dull grind.

---

Twelve in Spring: Self-Discovery and Surrender

Spring brought flowers, and I hit twelve Newports a day. I tried quitting once, after a health class lecture on willpower. I threw a pack in the school dumpster, swearing it was over. By dusk, I was back, digging through the trash with sweaty hands, heart racing, the need screaming louder than my shame. I found the crumpled pack, lit a Newport with trembling fingers, and smoked until I calmed down. After that, I stopped fighting.

I’d smoke on the bleachers after school, the city’s hum around me—honking horns, rumbling engines, the echo of a life I wasn’t sure I wanted. Dana saw me one day and grinned: “Told you it’s not easy to quit.” I exhaled a cloud of smoke, defeated. “I know,” I mumbled. The cigarette between my fingers was a mirror, showing a Mara I didn’t recognize—not the good girl anymore, but a teen smoker, no different from those I’d judged.

---

Why I Gave In

Dana lit the first spark, but I stoked the fire. Newports filled a hole I didn’t know I had—the boredom of long afternoons, the pressure to be perfect, the ache for a dad who never came back. It wasn’t just weakness; it was being human, needing something to hold onto when everything felt like it was slipping away. I used to judge smokers for not getting that—now I was one of them, and that truth hurt more than the first drag.

---

Conclusion: A Life in Smoke

That year in Dayton changed me. From someone who looked down to someone staring at a cigarette, wondering how I got there. Have you ever judged someone only to end up in their shoes? Felt an addiction sneak up like this? Share your story in the comments—I want to hear you. Loved this connection? Follow the blog for more real, soul-stirring tales.

Tags: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Newport cigarettes, peer influence, self-discovery, urban life, emotional connection, Dayton

Mist of Surrender: My Journey with Cigarettes

 

It was 1972 in Mankato, Minnesota, a sleepy town where winters bite and summers hum with cicadas. I was Ellie, 14, a quiet girl raised on black-and-white TV—Walter Cronkite’s voice, Winston cigarette ads, and Sunday church with Dad. Mom bent rules, letting us skip homework for Bonanza reruns. Life was simple until a frigid January night shattered it: a trooper knocked at 2:43 a.m., announcing Dad’s death in a crash on the icy road from Minneapolis. Mom crumpled, sobbing into the officer’s chest, while Tara, my 17-year-old sister, and I watched from the stairs, helpless.

The Night Smoke Took Hold: Family Grief

Tara moved first. She darted to the kitchen, grabbed a Winston 100 from Mom’s pack, lit it with a flick, and pressed it between Mom’s trembling fingers. “Here,” she whispered. Mom dragged deep—once, twice, three times—and the shaking stopped, as if the smoke wove a spell. I stared, shocked yet mesmerized. The officer patted Tara’s shoulder. “Can you handle her tonight?” Tara nodded, glancing at me. “We’ll manage.”

That night planted a seed. The smoke wasn’t just tobacco—it was a lifeline, a dark promise whispering through the haze.

---

A House of Smoke: The Need Begins

Weeks bled into months. Mom faded into a shell, perched at the dining table, chain-smoking Winstons, her eyes lost in the snow beyond the window. Tara stepped up—cooking, washing, scrubbing—her hands always busy, a Winston dangling from her lips. I’d catch her late at night, folding laundry in the basement, smoke curling like tendrils around her. “How do you keep going?” I asked once, voice small. She exhaled through her nose, the cigarette glowing. “Smoking. It steadies me. You’d be surprised how it quiets the noise.”

I felt it then—a tug, a hollow ache in my chest. The smoking need wasn’t just Tara’s or Mom’s; it was creeping into me. The house reeked of it—stale, sharp, alive. I’d lie awake, the scent seeping under my door, my fingers twitching for something I didn’t yet understand.

---

First Drag: The Craving Awakens

One humid July evening, Mom was at work. Tara waved me to the porch. “Try it,” she said, tossing me a Marlboro Red—not a Winston this time. “No way,” I snapped, but my hands shook with want. She smirked, lit it, and shoved it at me. “One drag. It won’t kill you.” I hesitated, then pulled. The burn hit—bitter, fierce—and I coughed, eyes watering. But beneath the sting, a warmth bloomed, a voice in the smoke murmuring, “Stay.” Tara laughed. “Again.” I did, and the need sank deeper.

That night, I smoked three more, alone in my room. The cigarette addiction wasn’t just physical—it was a hunger, a dark fantasy whispering I’d never be free.

---

Five a Day: The Need Grows

Weeks later, I was at five Marlboro Reds a day. I’d wake with a dry throat, my first thought the pack under my pillow. Lighting one, I’d inhale deep, the smoke filling a void I couldn’t name. Tara caught me in the kitchen once, mid-drag. “You’re hooked,” she grinned. I glared but couldn’t deny it—the need was a beast, clawing at me if I waited too long. My hands would tremble, my head pound, a voice hissing, “More.”

I tried resisting—hid a pack in my drawer for a day. By noon, I was pacing, sweat beading, the ache unbearable. I caved, smoked two back-to-back, the relief like air after drowning. The smoking need owned me.

---

Ten and Counting: Family Pressure and Cravings

By August, I hit ten a day. I’d bike to the gas station on Main, buying Winstons and Marlboro Reds with chore money, the clerk never blinking. I’d smoke in the woods, the haze a curtain between me and the world. Mom noticed one evening, catching me on the steps. “You too?” she sighed, lighting a Winston. She didn’t scold—just smoked beside me, our exhales syncing. “We’re low on cigarettes,” she said, a faint smile breaking through her grief.

The need wasn’t just mine now—it was ours. Tara pushed me harder: “Keep up, Ellie.” I’d light one after dinner, the craving a constant hum. If I skipped, my chest tightened, my thoughts spiraled—smoke became my anchor.

---

Fifteen in the Grip: Dark Fantasy Takes Over

At 15, I reached fifteen cigarettes daily. The need was relentless. I’d tried quitting—tossed a pack in the snow one bitter morning, vowing to break free. Hours later, the voice returned, cold and mocking: “You can’t.” I dug through the frost, lit a soggy Winston, and the haze laughed. Another time, I burned a pack in the yard, watching flames eat the tobacco. That night, dreams came—smoke with eyes, hands dragging me down. I raided Tara’s stash, smoked until dawn, the need a living thing.

School started, and I joined the burnouts behind the gym. “Church girl smokes now?” they teased. I exhaled Marlboro Red smoke, the craving my badge.

---

Twenty and Desperate: The Need Consumes

Now, I smoke twenty a day—Winstons and Marlboro Reds in a frantic mix. I wake coughing, chest raw, reaching for the pack before my eyes open. The need hits like a fist—dry mouth, racing pulse, a scream in my skull if I delay. I light one, drag deep, and the world steadies, the smoke’s voice purring, “Good girl.” Tara’s gone to college, but Mom and I share the habit, our talks over cigarettes the only bridge left from our grief.

I’ve tried escaping so many times. Last month, I flushed a pack, swearing it was over. By dusk, I was clawing through the trash, hands shaking, the need a monster I couldn’t kill. I smoked three in a row, dizzy but alive, the haze my master.

---

Why the Smoking Need Won

Tara sparked it, Mom fed it, but the smoke claimed me. It’s not just nicotine—it’s a dark power, a fantasy that binds me. The need is physical—shakes, aches—but it’s more: a void only cigarettes fill, a whisper promising peace. I need them like air, each drag a surrender to the beast I’ve fed.

---

Conclusion: A Slave to the Mist

That winter in Mankato remade me. From a quiet teen to a smoker chained by need, I’m lost in the haze. Ever felt a cigarette addiction this fierce? A smoking need you can’t shake? Share below! Liked this tale of craving and surrender? Follow for more raw stories.

The Smoke I Couldn’t Escape: A Summer of Cigarettes

 It was the last day of school in June, and I walked home from Jefferson High in Asheville, North Carolina, feeling lighter than ever. I’d been part of the church youth group for six months now—praying every night, reading the Bible, singing hymns that stuck in my head. At 15, I’d finally found something real, something that made me feel whole. That day, we’d sung “Amazing Grace” to close the meeting, and I’d made plans with my group friends to keep up our Bible study over the summer. The mile home flew by as I hummed the tune, the sun warm on my face, my sneakers kicking up dust on the quiet road. I couldn’t wait for two months of peace—time to read, pray, and just be me.

That peace shattered the second I opened the front door. The smell hit me like a slap—stale cigarette smoke, thick and sour, clinging to everything. My mom, Diane, was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a freshly lit Marlboro Red between her fingers, the TV blaring some daytime talk show. She grinned at me, her voice rough. “Hey, kiddo, congrats on finishing the year!” I didn’t answer—just glared and headed for my room. The happiness drained out of me, replaced by that familiar burn of anger. She’d been smoking since before I was born, and I’d hated it just as long. Lately, though, it felt worse—like every puff was a personal attack on everything I’d been building with God.

“What’s your problem now, Lily?” she called after me, her tone shifting from cheerful to annoyed. I stopped halfway down the hall, fists clenched.

“You know what,” I snapped, turning back. “I come home feeling good for once, and all I get is this—this poison you keep sucking down. It’s killing you, Mom, and you don’t even care!” My voice cracked, louder than I meant it to be. She took a long drag, exhaling a cloud right at me, her eyes narrowing.

“Don’t start with that holy nonsense again,” she said, her words sharp. “I’ve been smoking since I was 13—longer than you’ve been alive. I know it’s bad, but I’m hooked, and I’m not quitting. You nag me every damn day like you’ve got all the answers. Give it a rest.” She stubbed out the cigarette hard in the ashtray, her movements jerky with frustration.

I shook my head and stormed to my room, slamming the door. Lying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling, my Bible unopened on the nightstand. She didn’t get it—none of them did. My old friends, the ones I’d grown up with, thought I was boring now, too “churchy.” I’d tried to tell them about God, how He’d saved me from feeling lost, but they’d just laughed. Mom was worse—she didn’t even try to understand. I wanted her to see the light, to stop smoking, to live right so we could meet in heaven someday. I’d never touched a cigarette, never would. It was a sin, a fake high that dulled the soul. At youth group, we all agreed—smoking was a trap, and I was proud to stay clean.

Dinner was silent. Mom picked at her food, her Marlboro pack sitting by her plate like a dare. I kept my eyes down, too stubborn to apologize for yelling. After, she grabbed her jacket and headed out—probably to her friend Tara’s place half a mile away. Tara was her smoking buddy, a loud woman with a gravelly laugh who’d been around since I was little. They’d sit on her porch, chain-smoking and talking trash about life. I didn’t care. It gave me quiet.

She came back late, the stink of smoke trailing her in. I was in the kitchen grabbing water when she tossed her keys on the counter and lit another Marlboro Red. “Tara’s coming over tomorrow,” she said, exhaling. “And you’re gonna stop with the attitude.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered sarcastically. “Back so soon—run out of cigarettes already?”

Her face hardened. “You don’t get to judge what you’ve never tried, Lily. You’re so high and mighty—maybe you should smoke one and see what it’s really like before you preach at me.”

I laughed, bitter. “Never. I’m not touching that filth. Goodnight.” I slammed my bedroom door again, her words echoing in my head. She wouldn’t dare push it—would she?

The next morning, I slept in, waking to voices in the living room. Tara’s laugh cut through the walls, followed by Mom’s low murmur. The smoke smell was already seeping under my door. I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. I’d planned to spend the day reading Psalms, not dealing with this. Then came the knock—sharp, insistent.

“Lily, open up,” Tara called, her voice too chipper. “It’s just me. Can I come in?”

I sat up, wary. “Yeah, I guess.”

She stepped in, a Marlboro Red glowing between her fingers, Mom hovering behind her. Tara was big—tall and broad, with hands that could crush a can. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Your mom’s been telling me you’re making her miserable with all this smoking crap. We’re done with it, kid. You hate it so much, but you don’t even know what you’re hating.”

“I don’t need to try it to know it’s wrong,” I said, crossing my arms. “It’s poison—secondhand smoke’s bad enough. You should both quit.”

Mom stepped forward, her face tight. “You think it’s so easy? If you smoked, you’d get how hard it is to stop. Tara and I decided—you’re trying it this summer. Starting now.”

My stomach dropped. “What? No way. I’m not smoking—ever.” I stood, backing toward the wall.

Tara moved faster, grabbing my shoulder with one meaty hand. “Sit down, Lily. You’ve been a brat about this long enough.” She pushed me onto my desk chair, her grip firm. Mom pulled out her Marlboro Reds, shook one free, and lit it with a flick of her lighter. She took a deep drag, then held it out to me.

“No!” I shouted, twisting away. Tara’s other hand clamped my arm, pinning me. Mom’s eyes were cold.

“You’re doing this, Lily. Take a drag—inhale it. See what it’s like.”

I shook my head, panic rising. Tara tightened her hold, and Mom leaned in, pressing the filter to my lips. “Do it, or we’ll make you.”

I clenched my jaw, but Tara yanked my hair back, sharp enough to sting. Tears pricked my eyes as I gasped—and the cigarette slipped in. “Drag,” Mom barked. I took a tiny puff, blowing it out fast. It burned my tongue, sour and awful.

“Inhale this time,” Tara said, her voice low. Mom pushed it back to my lips. Scared of what they’d do next, I obeyed—pulled harder, sucked the smoke down. My lungs seized, and I coughed hard, dizzy and sick. They smiled, like they’d won.

“See? Not so holy now,” Mom said, taking the cigarette back for herself. I stumbled to my bed, head spinning, as they left me there. I prayed—begged God to forgive me, to stop this—but the nicotine buzz lingered, mocking me.

That night at dinner, Tara stayed. They smoked through their meal, and when they finished, Mom slid the pack to me. “Your turn,” she said. I stared, frozen. Tara chuckled. “Don’t make us twist your arm again.”

I wanted to scream, but the memory of that grip—of the pain—stopped me. Trembling, I took a Marlboro Red, fumbled with the lighter, and lit it. My first drag was shaky, but I inhaled, the smoke hitting smoother this time. They watched, satisfied, as I took six more drags, each one easier. Dizzy again, I retreated to my room, hating them—and myself.

The next day, they pushed three cigarettes on me. I fought at first—locked my door, tried to hold out—but Mom jimmied the lock with a spare key, and Tara dragged me out. “You’re not winning this,” Mom said, lighting one for me. I smoked it, then the next, then the third, my resistance crumbling under their stares. By the fourth day—four cigarettes—I stopped locking the door. The dizziness faded; the taste grew familiar.

A week in, I hit six a day. I’d wake up, and my hands would twitch until I smoked. I hated it—the sin, the stink—but my body didn’t care. I’d light a Marlboro Red alone in my room, inhaling deep, watching the smoke curl. Mom noticed. “Told you it’s not so easy,” she said, smirking. I didn’t answer—just dragged harder.

By mid-July, I was at ten. I’d tried quitting—threw a pack in the trash after praying all night—but by noon, I was digging it out, shaking as I lit one. The craving clawed at me, a need I couldn’t pray away. I cried, realizing I couldn’t stop—not yet. Mom and Tara had won; they’d forced it into me, and now it stuck.

August came, and I hit fifteen a day. I’d smoke with them now—on the porch, Marlboro Reds in hand, the Bible gathering dust. I surrendered—not to them, but to the smoke. I liked the weight of it, the burn, the way it filled the empty spaces. Mom stopped nagging; she’d gotten what she wanted. “You’re like me now,” she said once, exhaling. I didn’t argue. I’d lost God, lost myself, and let the smoke take over

As August stretched on, the humid air clung to me like a second skin. I was up to fifteen Marlboro Reds a day—sometimes more if Mom left the pack out. I’d wake up coughing, my throat raw, and reach for one before my eyes even adjusted to the light. The first drag was always the best—sharp and strong, cutting through the haze of sleep, settling my nerves. I’d sit on my bed, window cracked, watching the smoke twist toward the ceiling, the Bible still unopened on my nightstand. I hadn’t prayed in weeks. The words felt hollow now, like they belonged to someone else—someone I used to be.

Mom noticed the shift. She’d catch me lighting up in the kitchen or sneaking one on the back steps and just nod, like it was normal. “You’re getting the hang of it,” she said one morning, pouring coffee as I double-pumped a Marlboro Red at the table. Her tone wasn’t smug anymore—it was matter-of-fact, like I’d joined some club she’d been in forever. Tara, over for lunch that day, laughed her gravelly laugh. “Told you she’d come around, Diane. Kid’s a natural.” I glared at her, exhaling through my nose, but didn’t argue. What was the point? They’d forced this on me, sure, but now it was mine—whether I liked it or not.

The cravings got worse. I’d be fine for an hour, maybe two, then my hands would itch, my chest would tighten, and I’d start pacing. Once, I tried holding out—made it to noon without lighting up, determined to prove I could still fight. My head pounded, my mouth went dry, and I snapped at Mom over nothing. By one, I was tearing through my room for a stray pack, finding one under my bed with three cigarettes left. I lit one so fast the lighter singed my thumb, and that first drag hit like water after a drought. I sank to the floor, smoke curling around me, and knew I was done fighting. I didn’t just want it—I needed it.

School loomed closer, and I dreaded it. My church friends would see me—smell the smoke on my clothes, spot the pack in my bag. I’d spent months preaching purity, bragging I’d never touch a cigarette, and now I was chaining Marlboro Reds like Mom. I thought about quitting before the first day, going cold turkey to reclaim that old Lily. I lasted six hours—tossed my pack in the creek behind the house, prayed for strength. By dusk, I was back at Tara’s, begging for a spare. She handed me a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds, smirking. “Knew you’d be back, kid.” I smoked two on her porch, hating how good it felt.

The night before school started, Mom and I sat on the front steps, a rare quiet between us. She lit a Marlboro Red, passed me the pack. I took one, lit it off hers, and we smoked in sync—long drags, slow exhales, the embers glowing in the dark. “You don’t have to keep going,” she said suddenly, her voice softer than usual. “I pushed you into this—I know that. If you wanna stop, I won’t stop you.” I stared at her, the smoke stinging my eyes. For a second, I wanted to say yes—wanted to throw the cigarette down and run back to God. But my hand tightened around it instead.

“Too late,” I muttered, taking another drag. “I can’t stop. You got what you wanted.” She didn’t reply—just smoked in silence, the gap between us wider than ever.

First day back, I skipped the youth group meeting. I couldn’t face them—not with the nicotine on my breath, the pack in my pocket. Instead, I crossed the street to the parking lot where the burnout kids hung out—Shelly and her crew, all smokers. They’d always been the ones I pitied, the ones I’d prayed for. Now I was one of them. “Got a light?” I asked, pulling out a Marlboro Red. Shelly tossed me a Bic, grinning. “Church girl’s gone rogue, huh?” I didn’t answer—just lit up and smoked with them, the chatter fading into the buzz of nicotine.

By October, I was at twenty a day. I’d smoke before school, during lunch, after class—any chance I got. The Bible stayed closed; my prayers dried up. I’d catch Mom watching me sometimes, a flicker of guilt in her eyes, but she never said it. Tara just laughed, slapping my back like I’d earned a badge. “You’re tougher than I thought, Lily.” I didn’t feel tough—just empty, chained to the Marlboro Reds I couldn’t put down.

One night, I woke up gasping, my chest tight like something was crushing it. I stumbled to the bathroom, lit a cigarette with trembling hands, and smoked until the panic eased. Staring at my reflection—pale, shadowed eyes, smoke curling around my face—I didn’t recognize myself. I’d begged God to save me from this, but He hadn’t—or I’d stopped listening. The girl who’d sung hymns was gone, replaced by someone who couldn’t go four hours without a fix.

Thanksgiving came, and Tara hosted. Mom and I sat at her table, plates piled with turkey and gravy, Marlboro Reds burning in the ashtray between us. Tara lit one off the candle centerpiece, passing the pack around like it was dessert. I took mine, smoked through the meal, the buzz blending with the food. Later, sprawled on her couch, I lit another, staring at the ceiling as they talked about nothing. My stash was low—five left in my pack—and I felt the familiar twitch. “Got any extras?” I asked Tara, voice flat. She tossed me a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. “Keep up, kid,” she said. I ripped it open, lit one, and let the smoke fill me.

That night, back home, I sat on my bed, the new pack beside me. I’d hit twenty-five today—more than Mom some days. I lit one more, inhaling deep, and watched the smoke drift. I didn’t pray anymore—didn’t even try. The Marlboro Reds owned me now, a chain I’d forged link by link over the summer. Mom had forced the first drag, but I’d taken the rest. I exhaled, the room hazing over, and surrendered completely—not to her, not to Tara, but to the smoke itself.

Smoking Took Me Over: How Cigarettes Hooked Me and I Can’t Quit

 

---

It was a stifling summer morning in Tucson, Arizona, the kind where the sun scorches everything and the dry air stings your throat. I was 16, sitting in the kitchen of our crumbling apartment—cracked tiles, a noisy fan that barely cooled anything. My mom, Diane, was across the table, sipping coffee and smoking a Marlboro 100, same as every day. The ashtray was already piled with stubs, and the smoke drifted up slow, mixing with the smell of stale coffee. I stared at her, pissed off, stirring my cereal. For years, I’d tried to get her to stop—nagged about the stench, lectured about black lungs, begged her. Nothing worked. She’d just look at me with those blank eyes and keep puffing. That morning, I’d had it.

I could tell she felt my anger—she always did, even if she acted like she didn’t care. But I was done talking to a wall. While she watched the news on our little kitchen TV, I got this crazy idea—not some genius plan, just pure frustration. If she wouldn’t quit, I’d show her how stupid it was. I’d smoke too. I didn’t want to—the smell made me sick, and I hated how it owned her—but I figured if she saw me with a cigarette, she’d freak out and ditch the habit. I reached over, grabbed a Marlboro 100 from her pack, slid the ashtray closer, and snatched her silver Zippo. I stuck the cigarette in my mouth, lit it on the third try, and pulled the smoke in. It tasted awful—bitter, chemical, like licking burnt rubber. I coughed hard, nearly spilling my coffee, but kept it between my lips, pretending I knew what I was doing.

She didn’t notice at first—too caught up in the TV. It wasn’t until my fourth puff, when I blew the smoke her way, that she turned. “What the hell, Lauren?” she said, faking shock. “You’ve been bitching at me for years about this, and now you’re smoking? You’re not allowed!” I gave a dry laugh. “I’m almost 16—I’ll do what I want. But this isn’t for me. I’m showing you how nasty this is. I’ll smoke till you quit. You don’t care about your body, but I know you care about mine. No decent mom lets her kid turn into a smoker.” I thought I’d nailed it. She went quiet, her face stiff, and I figured she was about to cave.

But then she hit back, too calm: “If I thought you’d actually become a smoker, I’d quit right now. But just playing with the smoke in your mouth? That’s nothing. Keep up the charade if you want—it doesn’t faze me.” My plan fell apart. She’d called my bluff, and I was stuck. If I wanted to shake her, I’d have to inhale for real. That’d get her. But just thinking about sucking that smoke into my lungs made my stomach churn—I knew it was wrong, knew it’d hurt.

The cigarette was half-gone, and I wanted to smash the stinking thing out, but that’d be giving up. So I copied her—brought it to my mouth, pulled the smoke, and tried to inhale. It felt like a punch to the chest. I coughed so hard I thought I’d choke, spitting it all out while she stifled a laugh. I tried again, slower, and held it for a second before letting go. No cough that time, but my gut twisted. I bolted to the bathroom, nearly puking, and stood there, panting, thinking how dumb this was. But I couldn’t back down—I had to prove it to her.

I spent the school day plotting. Mom’s Marlboro 100s were too harsh—I needed something I wouldn’t choke on every time. Some girls at school smoked Marlboro Lights, and I’d heard the 100s were milder. After class, I stopped at the Exxon on the corner. Grabbed bread and milk to blend in, then asked for a pack of Marlboro Light 100s. The clerk didn’t blink—just said, “Pack or box?” I mumbled “pack,” bought a cheap lighter pack, and left, feeling the weight of it in my backpack like a secret.

Mom left a message: “Working late, home by seven. Chicken’s in the fridge—make dinner.” Perfect—I had time to practice. I set the pack on the kitchen table next to hers. The Marlboro Light was white, cleaner-looking than her gold one—less intimidating. I tore off the cellophane, ripped the foil, and tapped it on my wrist—two filters popped up. I lit one and pulled the smoke—less brutal than the morning, but still rough. I inhaled slow, and my chest burned, but I didn’t cough. I let it out, a thin stream rising to the ceiling. Did it again, and again, pulling deeper each time. By the seventh drag, my head spun—sickening, but with a weird calm underneath. I stubbed it out halfway and sat there, waiting for the nausea to fade. It wasn’t good—just bearable.

When she got home, I was ready. We ate chicken and mashed potatoes fast, and she lit a Marlboro 100 right after. I grabbed my pack, lit a Light, and inhaled in front of her—no cough, just a smooth exhale. She looked surprised and said, “You’re serious, huh? Okay, I see you’re inhaling. Give me till Saturday to figure out how I’ll quit.” I nodded, but added, “I’ll keep smoking till then, to keep you honest.” She agreed, and I thought I had the upper hand.

Wednesday and Thursday followed the same beat. She’d get home from her insurance gig, light up, and I’d join her, inhaling carefully. After dinner, I’d have another, but never finished—my stomach still flipped, and I didn’t want to push it. But it was sinking in deeper than I’d planned. Friday afternoon, alone at home, I stared at the pack on the table. No homework, nothing on TV—just restless. I lit one without thinking. Inhaled deep, and this heat hit—not just my chest, but lower, a shiver I didn’t expect. I locked myself in the bathroom, cigarette in my mouth, and messed with my jeans. Another drag, smoke in the mirror, and my body lit up—fast, intense, a rush I couldn’t shake. I stubbed it out, freaked, but it stuck with me.

Saturday, I figured it’d end. She’d lay out her quit plan, and I’d stop too. But with morning coffee, I lit one without even noticing. Inhaled hard, felt the smoke fill me up, and the coffee tasted better—bitter blending with bitter, and I liked it. Really liked it. When we talked, she said, “I’ll quit in five weeks, with patches. I’ll drop from two packs to one, then cut five a week.” I said, “Fine. I’ll smoke till you’re done.” But as I spoke, I lit another, and she didn’t fight it. I was up to five a day—more when she was around—and it wasn’t just about her anymore. I’d feel this itch if I went too long without—hands twitchy, chest tight, like something was missing.

Monday, my pack ran dry. I hit the Exxon again—“Two packs of Marlboro Light 100s”—and the scrawny clerk chatted me up. “Smoke here if you want,” he said. I lit one right there, and he stared—every puff, every exhale, like I was a show. It felt weird, but kinda strong. At home, I smoked another in my room, that heat creeping back. I couldn’t stop myself—the rush came again, tied to the smoke, and I knew I was in deep. I tried quitting cold turkey once—went a whole morning without lighting up, swearing I’d drop it before she did. By noon, I was a mess—shaky, pissed off, head screaming for it. I caved, lit one, and inhaled like it was air. The relief hit, but so did the truth: I couldn’t quit. It owned me now.

Weeks rolled by, and I lost control. Eight a day—morning coffee meant two before school, one after, more at night with her. Fridays with her wine, I’d hit ten, maybe twelve. I’d try to skip one—tell myself I didn’t need it—but an hour later, I’d be clawing for the pack, heart racing, body begging. Once, I hid it in a drawer to test myself. Didn’t last half a day—dug it out, smoked two back-to-back, hating how good it felt. Sunday, we went to a Mexican diner. “Smoking or non?” the waiter asked. “Smoking,” I said, no hesitation, but I’d forgotten my pack. I bummed a Marlboro 100 from her, and that first drag after hours without was heaven—my whole body relaxed, but I hated needing it that bad. I bought my own pack from the machine, feeling eyes on me as I walked back.

By Wednesday, it was over. She caught me in my room—seven butts in the ashtray, pack in hand. “Need to talk?” she asked, smirking. I took a deep drag, blew it out my nose, and said, “I’m done bugging you. You were right—it’s crap, but it’s so damn good. I’m hooked, Mom. I can’t stop—I try, and it’s like my body fights me. And the messed-up part? I kinda like it now.” She chuckled. “No worries, kid. Want me to grab you a pack?” I nodded, lighting another. It wasn’t about her anymore—it was me, the pack in my pocket, the smoke I craved, this pull I couldn’t shake. I’d lost, and I wasn’t even mad—just stuck.

My Journey with Marlboro Red: A Smoker's Tale of Choice and Addiction

It was a humid spring afternoon in São Paulo, and I was on the balcony of our rundown apartment in the city center. I was 19, holding a cold coffee mug, the heat sticking my shirt to my back. The rusted railing creaked, and the street below roared with cars. I glanced down aimlessly and spotted Seu João, my neighbor from 302, lighting a cigarette at his window. He inhaled with a calm that clashed with the urban chaos, exhaling slow plumes of smoke into the gray sky. I stared, almost unconsciously, and thought, Why not? The next day, I scraped together some spare change—dirty coins from my jeans pocket—and headed to the corner store. I bought a pack of Marlboro Red. The bold red pack caught my eye, promising something I craved, even if I couldn’t name it.

The First Puff: A Secret Beginnings

That evening, I snuck back to the balcony, the pack tucked under my loose shirt, pressed against my waistband. I waited for Mom to hit the shower and Dad to lock himself in his room, tinkering with an old radio. My hands shook as I tore open the pack, pulling out a cigarette. The sharp tobacco scent hit me hard—almost too much. I grabbed the red Bic lighter from the kitchen drawer, the one Mom used for the stove, and fumbled. The first try barely singed the tip; the second, I sucked too hard, and the ember flared. I took a drag and coughed until my eyes watered, my throat scratching like I’d swallowed dirt. But I laughed—a nervous, silly giggle. “This is how it starts,” I whispered, eyeing the cigarette like it held a secret. I didn’t inhale that day—just played with the smoke in my mouth, blowing out clumsy shapes. It was my little rebellion, hidden from my parents.

Learning the Ropes: A Smoker's Routine

I got the hang of it slowly. I’d light one cigarette a day, always on the balcony, timing it for when Mom left for her night shift at the diner and Dad dozed off on the couch. I learned to hold the filter without crushing it, to draw the smoke without choking, to exhale quietly. A week in, I decided to inhale. I pulled the smoke into my mouth, paused, and let it slide down my chest. It burned a little, tickled my lungs, but I coughed less this time. Then came the dizziness—a soft wave that slowed everything down. I liked it, despite the bitter aftertaste lingering for hours. I stashed the pack in my backpack, buried under college notebooks, and tossed the lighter back in the drawer.

The Habit Grows: Sneaking Around

Months passed, and smoking crept into my life. I went from one cigarette to two, sometimes three, always dodging my parents’ notice. The smell clung to my clothes, and I’d blame Seu João or my college buddies from Arts school—where I went more out of stubbornness than love. During class breaks, I’d sit in the courtyard with friends, lighting a Marlboro Red and inhaling like it was second nature. “You’re turning into a real smoker,” Bia, my purple-haired friend, teased. I grinned, a bit proud, tucking the pack away. It felt like part of me now.

The Cravings Hit: Desperate Moments

The addiction snuck up on me, and with it came tough days. One afternoon, I was in the living room, pretending to study for a test, when the craving hit like a punch. It was this itch in my brain, a restlessness clawing at my chest, making my fingers twitch. My pack was in the bedroom, but Mom was cooking, humming a country tune, and Dad was reading the paper right next to me. No way to sneak to the balcony. I tried distracting myself—chewed my nails raw, doodled nonsense, chugged water—but it didn’t help. The nicotine withdrawal gnawed at me, a hollow ache screaming for relief. I mumbled about grabbing a book, bolted to my room, locked the door, and cracked the window. I lit up with sweaty hands, dragging fast and blowing smoke outside. The calm washed over me, and I almost laughed at how desperate I’d been.

Another time was brutal. It was a Sunday, and my parents stayed home all day. I’d smoked my last cigarette the night before, and the new pack was gone. The urge started small in the morning but turned into a nightmare by afternoon. I paced, muttering to myself, heart racing, anger bubbling up for no reason. I chewed gum, downed coffee, but my mind fixated on the next drag. Mom asked why I was so jittery, and I lied, “Just stressed about a test.” By five, I couldn’t take it. I grabbed bus fare, claimed I was studying at Bia’s, and raced to the store. I bought another Marlboro Red, lit it behind a tree on the street, and inhaled deep until the world steadied.

The Breaking Point: Surrendering to Nicotine Addiction

Then came the day I broke—at 21, during a holiday alone at home. I decided to test myself: no smoking, just for a day. I woke up fine, drank coffee, read a bit, but by two, the craving kicked in. It started subtle, then grew into this wild anxiety I couldn’t shake. My chest tightened, my hands shook, and I couldn’t focus. I told myself, Okay, just today, I’ll quit tomorrow. I grabbed the pack, lit up on the balcony, and smoked. The relief hit, but then it sank in—I wasn’t stopping. Not tomorrow, not ever. My heart pounded, panic rising as I pictured life without cigarettes. No pack in my bag, no lighter in my pocket—it felt like losing myself. I sat on the balcony floor, lit another right after, and watched the smoke drift. I stopped fighting. The addiction won, and I let it. It felt easier, truer to who I’d become.

Parents’ Discovery: No Shock Here

They found out one ordinary night. I was on the balcony, smoking and staring at the city lights, when the door creaked open. Mom stood there, apron stained with sauce, Dad behind her with his coffee mug. “So this is what you’ve been hiding?” she said, nodding at the cigarette. I froze, bracing for a lecture, but she laughed—a raspy, knowing laugh. Dad shrugged, pulling a pack of Continental from his pocket. “No surprise,” he said, lighting his own. “You think we didn’t smell it on your clothes?” Mom grabbed the kitchen lighter, sparked a Carlton, and sat beside me. “If you’re doing it, do it right,” she said, handing me the Bic. We sat there, three smokers in silence, smoke curling up together into the dark. No scolding, no drama—they’d been at it for years, and I was just joining the club.

Living the Smoker’s Life: No Regrets

By 25, I lived alone in a cramped Vila Madalena apartment, scraping by with illustration gigs and waitressing shifts. I smoked about 12 cigarettes a day, more on bar nights or late drawing sessions. My chest felt tight sometimes, and climbing stairs left me winded, but I brushed it off. “That’s how it is,” I’d think. Marlboro Red stayed my go-to—the harsh kick kept me sharp. It was there for tight deadlines, husky bar talks, and nights staring at the ceiling. One night, in a peeling-walled bar, a guy asked, “Ever think of quitting?” I laughed, voice rough from years of smoke. “Quit for what? This is me,” I said, lighting another with the near-dead Bic. The ember glowed, and I exhaled hard, smoke rising like a signature. I never regretted it—not the desperate days, not the moment I gave in. It’s me, pack in pocket, bitter taste on my tongue, living my way.

The Six Weeks

Karina awoke to the smell of cigarette smoke. God damn it, she thought, as she hid under the covers to get away from the smell, "What do I have to do to get away from these things?" At 16 years old, she had always hated the smell of the tobacco smoke which seemed to come interminably from the kitchen as she awoke each morning. This morning, she was going to do something about it! As she got out of bed, she glanced at the clock. 6:45 and she's at it already! All Karina could think about was the disgusting smell of the smoke that seemed to permeate throughout the entire house 24 hours a day. Quietly opening her bedroom door, she peered out into the hall, where she had a good view of the dining room and kitchen. Here Mom, Keiko, was quietly sitting at the table, with a freshly lit Salem 100 in her hand. Her elbow was propped on the kitchen table, with the cigarette propped up next to her ear. Yuck! Karina hated this sight more than anything. How could her mom be so stupid? Didn't she know what she was doing to her body? She quietly watched as her mother took the cigarette to her mouth and sucked on it for what seemed like an eternity. She then opened her mouth and breathed in deeply. After a few seconds, Keiko opened her mouth and blew a thin stream of smoke across the room. This must stop, thought Karina. But how? She had pleaded mercilessly with her mother on several occasions to stop this filthy habit. All to no avail. Brrrinnngggg!! It was the phone. As her Mom went into the den to answer it, Karina raced into action. Her first target was the cigarette left burning in the ashtray on the table. She grabbed it and took it into the kitchen, quickly dousing it in the kitchen sink and washing it down the drain. Her next target was the pack of Salem 100s. She grabbed them and twisted like she had never twisted before! Back and forth, up and down, until there was no way possible that anyone could smoke them. Then she dumped them in the trash can under the sink. Feeling a little bit scared at what she had done, Karina retreated to her bedroom, where she laid in her bed and waited for the inevitable to happen. About 30 seconds later, the door opened slowly and her mom walked in the bedroom. Karina! Where are my cigarettes? Karina! After realizing that feigning sleep would do her no good, Karina got up to face the music. "Mom, I hate the smell of your smoke!! I'm sorry, but you should quit!!" "Karina, where are my cigarettes," repeated Keiko. "All right, they're under the sink," replied Karina. "I talk to you later, " said Keiko, as she left the room. Karina Nagasaki had always been a very strong-willed girl, which was very alien to her mother. Keiko was born and raised in Japan and had moved to the U.S. from Japan when she was 20 years old and pregnant with Karina. Being unmarried, she was fearful of the reaction of her family and friends in Tokyo. She knew that the U.S. was much more tolerant of this sort of behavior and she could blend in much more naturally in such an environment. But she was still very much a traditional Japanese girl at heart, and did not understand the Americanized ways of her daughter, who, though she looked completely Japanese, could not even speak the language! Her Mom had tried to teach her, but being the stubborn girl she was, Karina always questioned why she needed to learn Japanese when she lived in America. Karina was a very pretty girl, very much like her mother, who had been involved in beauty pageants as a child, and had even won a few. Karina was extremely outgoing and active in school events. She was the star player of the field hockey team, even though she was only a Sophomore. She also played basketball and softball. Although she was quite pretty and looked very Japanese, she was decidedly un-Japanese in almost every respect, from dating to her taste in clothes. Karina heard nothing more from here mother that morning. She got up at her usual time of 7 am to prepare for school. As she left at 7:45, she said a simple "Siyonara," to her mother (one of the few phrases she knew in Japanese) and was out the door. She noticed that her mother was smoking again as she left. "She must have a million packs in that house," she thought as she hurried to school. She wondered why her mother, who seemed to have everything going for her (beauty, brains, a good job), would sacrifice all that to smoke 30 cigarettes a day. As she made her way to her homeroom, Karina noticed a group of three girls smoking outside the school. "How stupid," she thought. "Why would they do that?" As the day proceeded, Karina wondered what her Mom would do when she got home from school. At 16, she was too old to punish, she thought. But surely here Mom would do something to voice her disapproval. At 3 PM, the final bell rang, and Karina headed home, unsure of what awaited her. Her Mom, who worked as a beautician, would not be home from work until about 5:30, and she waited listlessly and completed her homework in her usual quick and impeccable fashion by 5. When Keiko arrived, she simply stated, "Karina, we need talk." "We need TO talk," said Karina, quickly correcting her. "Oh yes, you perfect English speaker," said Keiko. She realized that Karina was far more versed in correct English than her, and would not hesitate to embarrass and correct her whenever she felt like it. "Karina, you are bad child," said Keiko. "You always do bad things to your Mother. You show no respect for elders, like you should." Karina rolled her eyes, "Mom, its different here, kids are much more advanced and, well, its just different! And I don't like to smell smoke!" "Karina, I am smoker, and you must accept that. I cannot help it. I made a bad choice many years ago, in Japan, and now I must live with it." Karina didn't quite understand what her Mom meant by this. "Mom, I care about you, and I can't understand why you smoke those things." Karina had never really paid much attention to smokers, other than her Mom, and she obviously wasn't going to show any empathy towards her mother, and when Keiko stated "Karina, you are a beautiful young girl, but you show no respect. Haven't you ever heard that its hard to quit smoking?" her only reply was "How hard can it be to stop sucking on white sticks and blowing out yucky smoke? I could do it in a minute!! With that, she stormed off into her room, slamming the door behind her. It was only 6 pm, and Karina, stuck in her bedroom after her fight with Keiko, was already done with her schoolwork. After a few hours of boredom in her room, Karina went into the kitchen, only to find her Mom smoking yet another Salem 100. "Well, Karina, you have come to apologize?", said her Mom. "Hell no, I'm just thirsty," said Karina, walking past her Mom. "You should just quit," she added. She grabbed some orange juice and proceeded back into her room. Over the next few days, the only conversations between Keiko and her daughter were short and all seemed to involve smoking. "Just stop inhaling!" or "How hard can it be?" were all Keiko ever seemed to hear out of Karina's mouth. Keiko only listened, unable to quickly think of a comeback in English. But her thoughts, in Japanese, were beginning to become hostile to her daughter. Finally, after the third day of harassment from her daughter, Keiko had had enough. Although it was decidedly against her nature, she decided to attack back. "If you ever smoke, you know it is impossible to quit!!" she said to her daughter. Karina, somewhat shocked at the surprising tone of her mothers voice, replied "Well, if I did, I sure would quit. I don't understand what the problem is!" Uncharacteristically, Keiko then rose from her chair and offered her daughter a cigarette. "Here," she said. "Be my guest!" Before either of them realized it, Karina was seated next to her mother, with a cigarette in her hand. Still overcome by hostility, Keiko flicked her lighter and held it out to her daughter, who somewhat embarrassingly put it into her mouth and accepted the light. Karina then sucked on the cigarette and immediately blew it out without inhaling. "Yuck! How can you do this? You're stupid!!" "No, you stupid," replied Keiko. "You're not even doing it right. Watch and learn." She then put her cigarette to her mouth, clamped her Asian lips around it, and sucked. Accentuating every action, she then opened her mouth, and with a very loud "Swoosh," inhaled the smoke into her lungs. After a few seconds, she again opened her mouth and began blowing out the smoke, directly at her daughter, as if to punish her. Karina then looked down, as if contemplating her next action. After a few seconds of deliberation, she then looked directly at her Mom and mimicked her actions of a few seconds before. Putting the cigarette to her mouth, she gently drew the smoke into her mouth, as she had done before. But this time, instead of blowing the smoke out, she opened her mouth and breathed in. She tried her best, but could not help coughing as the harsh smoke penetrated her young lungs. "Good lord, Mom, that was awful!" she said, spouting smoke with every word. "Well, I got used to it, and if you get used to it, you cannot stop," Keiko said softly, expecting a few kind words from her daughter, but got instead "Oh hell Mom, what are you, a wimp? Sometimes you've just got to bite the bullet." Keiko could not believe that she had raised such an unforgiving daughter. "Well, ok then, I make you a bet. If you start to smoke and become used to it and you quit, then I too will quit." "Deal!," shouted Karina, putting her right hand out. The two women had no sooner finished shaking hands then Karina was taking another puff from her still lit Salem 100. Another cough, however, was the result. Keiko simply smiled and said "Keep it up, big mouth." By the third puff, Karina was questioning her decision to smoke. Although she didn't cough this time, she started to feel a little dizzy and decided to stop. "Mom, how long does it take to get used to this?" "What are you, wimp?" Keiko said laughingly. "Sometimes you should eat bullets!! You smoke every day for six weeks and you will definitely be used to it." One cigarette a day for one and a half months, Karina reasoned. I should be able to handle that. "OK, but after six weeks, we both will quit together.. Deal?" "Ok, Karina, but after six weeks, if you EVER smoke a cigarette, I don't have to quit." Somewhat hesitatingly, Keiko shook hands with her daughter. As she drifted off to sleep, Keiko wondered just what she had gotten into. How stupid could she be, forcing her daughter to be a smoker just to get her off her back. What if Karina became addicted? Keiko knew that she herself could not quit, and she hated herself for it. She had tried everything: Nicorette Gum, the patch, and Cold Turkey more times than she could remember. She had tried so many, many times. Strangely, Keiko fretted even more over what would happen if Karina didn't like smoking. What if she had no trouble quitting? Remembering her own personal history, this didn't seem possible, but it was enough of a worry to cause one extremely sleepless night.. At that moment, Keiko realized she didn't want to go through the agony of nicotine withdrawal again, and she realized she must make sure that Karina likes smoking. After the six weeks were up, she reasoned, she would help her daughter to quit. She had a few leftover patches in her closet, and after only six weeks of smoking, it would be a snap for Karina to kick the habit. This way, she would not have to quit herself. Finally satisfied with her plan, she finally drifted off to sleep at 3 am. Karina awoke to the customary smell of cigarette smoke and immediately popped up out of bed. Still in her pajamas, she proceeded to the kitchen table, sat down, and said "Well, give me one. I'm ready for my daily ration!" Somewhat surprised, Keiko pushed the pack, along with her lighter, across the table to her daughter. As if she had done it all her life, Karina shook a cigarette out of the pack, put it in her mouth and lit it, although it took her two or three tries before she could work the lighter correctly. Trying to avoid her mother's stare, she gently sucked on the cigarette and then blew out a puff of uninhaled smoke. "Listen, if you don't do it right, then deal is off." Remembering her experience from the previous night, Karina frowned and resigned herself to her fate. "OK, ok," she said and proceeded to inhale the next puff. She then blew out a tiny stream of smoke without coughing. "There, now get off my back!" she said to her Mom. After a few more seconds, Karina took another, slightly longer, puff and blew out the smoke in the direction of her mother. "We'll see who's the wimp now!," she said. After a few more inhales, she put out the half finished cigarette. "What, that's all?, "said Keiko. "Gotta get ready for school," she said, although in truth she was feeling somewhat queasy but just didn't want to admit it. Feeling somewhat guilty, Keiko did not pursue the matter. As Keiko arrived home at 6:30, Karina was, as usual, already finished with her homework and was sitting on the couch watching TV when her Mom arrived. "Where have you been," questioned Karina. "I went shopping, can you please help me unload?" After carrying in the four bags of groceries, Karina was helping her Mom put the groceries . She was caught off guard when her Mom presented her with a pack of Salem 100s. "Here, " Keiko said, "I don't want you to keep bumming off me. And here's a lighter too. Go ahead, take them." After a moments hesitation, Karina grabbed the cigarettes and lighter and turned to walk away. "Let's smoke now, honey," said Keiko. "But Mom, I already smoked today." "You call that smoking? If you want me to quit, you have to smoke naturally. Please sit down." Karina responded to this friendly gesture and realized that her Mom was no longer hostile and was willing to live up to her part of the bargain. "OK, Mom, but just this once. I want to smoke only in the morning to get it over with. That way, I don't have to worry about if for the rest of the day." Keiko just smiled and watched her daughter open her first pack of cigarettes. The two women then proceeded to light up simultaneously. Karina still fumbled with her lighter, but managed to light her cigarette on the third attempt. As she inhaled for the first time, Karina made a funny face, as if to tell her Mom that she would smoke, but she wouldn't like it. As she blew out the smoke, Keiko noticed that her daughter did not cough or show any signs of discomfort. "Boy, like a pro," Keiko commented. "Yeah, piece of cake," said her daughter. Karina managed six more puffs before deciding she had had enough for the night. The next morning, Keiko was surprised to see her daughter come out of her bedroom, carrying a single cigarette in her fist, along with a lighter in her other hand. Sitting down next to her mother, Karina simply said "Might as well get if over with," and proceeded to light up. This time Karina had no problems with the lighter and took four drags in fairly rapid succession before putting her Salem 100 down in the ashtray, next to her mother's. "Whoa, talk about a head rush," she said, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. "Honey, smoking makes you feel good when you first start. It's normal," said Keiko, stroking her daughters long black hair. After about a minute of relaxing, Karina sat back up and reached for her cigarette. Tapping off the ashes, she inhaled again. This was her longest inhale yet, as if she was trying to recreate the effects of her previous efforts. "Karina dear, don't overdo it. The cigarettes will be here when you get home from school." "You're right Mom, what the heck am I doing with this stupid thing. I need to get ready for school!" With that, she crushed out the cigarette, and went to get dressed. After a busy day at school, Karina returned home. She thought about smoking a cigarette, but decided not to. She would only smoke in the mornings and in six weeks this whole nightmare would be over. Her Mom would quit, and she wouldn't have to worry any more. At 5:30, Keiko returned home from work, and immediately sat down on the couch next to her daughter and lit a cigarette. "Oh, that feels good," she said. "Care to join me, Karina?" "No thanks," Karina said, "I'll have one in the morning, thank you!" This worried Keiko. "Oh no!," she thought, "she doesn't like it. I am doomed!" The rest of the night was uneventful, and the two women went to bed at around 10. The next day started just as the previous day had, with Karina making the trek to the kitchen table, cigarette in hand, and lighting up with her mother "just to get it over with." This time, however, she smoked an entire cigarette for the first time, taking a full ten puffs before crushing out her Salem 100 next to her mother's. After she was finished, she leaned back in her chair and relaxed, seeming to enjoy the experience immensely. "You liked that, didn't you?" said Keiko. "Don't be ridiculous, mother, I'm just tired, that's all!" That afternoon, Keiko again offered her daughter a cigarette. After a minute of contemplation, Karina grudgingly obliged, taking a Salem from her Mom's pack, along with a light from her mother. Karina now, her mother noticed, was taking slightly longer drags, as if attempting to feel an effect from the smoke. Karina smoked the entire cigarette again, and crushed it out next to her mother's. Karina woke up early the next morning. Try as she might, she couldn't get back to sleep and decided to get up early and do a little preparation for her exam in third period that day. Realizing that it was only 6:30, she knew that her mother would not be up yet, and it would be a perfect opportunity to get her daily smoking out of the way. She could show her Mom the butt in the ashtray as proof that she had smoked her required cigarette. Grabbing her textbook, cigarettes and lighter, she went to the kitchen table, where she always studied, and lit up. This cigarette seemed to go much faster than the previous ones, and Karina was finished in about five minutes. However, she also noticed that she was only slightly buzzed, and didn't experience the head rush of the previous days cigarette. "Oh well, " she thought, and continued to study at the table. About 15 minutes later, Karina heard some rustling upstairs, and for the first time (she wasn't usually up before her Mom), noticed coughing coming from the upstairs bedroom. The coughing continued for a few minutes, and then her Mom came down the stairs, cigarette in hand and sat down next to her. "Well, honey, I see you're ready for morning requirement!" said Keiko. "Well, Mom, you see�OK" said Karina, realizing that her Mom had no idea that she had already smoked. Karina then lit up her second cigarette of the morning. This time, however, she quickly noticed the previous mornings head rush reappearing. "Cool," she thought, and continued to puff. After finishing the cigarette, Karina went to her room to get dressed. That afternoon, Karina needed no prodding to accept a cigarette from her mother. She somewhat eagerly accepted, careful to keep her excitement in check, and proceeded to smoke her third cigarette of the day. As she stamped out her cigarette next to her mother's, she made sure to say "only two cigarettes a day, that's it! Then in 5 � more weeks, you quit smoking!" She lived up to her promise for the next few days, smoking with her mother in the morning and in the afternoon. Keiko noticed, however, that her inhaling was becoming much deeper, and that she was smoking the entire cigarette, inhaling perhaps 10 or more times per cigarette. As she finished her afternoon cigarette, her mother couldn't help but think she had nothing to worry about. On her fifth day of smoking Karina got home from school around 3:30. It had been an unusually light day at school, and she realized she had no homework to do! As she walked into her room, she noticed her pack of Salem 100s sitting on her dresser. "What if I smoked now, " she thought. "Mom would never know. Cool!" So she shook free a Salem and lit it in her bedroom. She noticed that the pack was more than half gone. "Did I smoke all those?, she quietly wondered. As she sat and smoked her cigarette, she realized that she actually enjoyed it, and it felt good. Keiko arrived home at 5:30 and the two women smoked their usual afternoon cigarette. This time, however, both women finished at the same time and crushed out their Salems simultaneously. Karina's third cigarette now became a trend, and she would smoke every day after school, before her mother came home. After a few days, Keiko noticed that Karina had run out of cigarettes. She was of course more than happy to supply her with another pack. Karina was now a 3 cigarette a day smoker. "I shouldn't worry," she thought, "my Mom smokes ten times this much!" This trend continued for the next week, with Karina inhaling nicotine about 30 times a day and beginning to enjoy it immensely. Keiko realized at this point that their were only four weeks to go, and Karina may be able to quit her 3 cigarette a day habit, thereby forcing Keiko herself to quit her 30 cigarette a day addiction. This called for immediate action, and Keiko responded, realizing that she did not care to go through the agony of nicotine withdrawal, even though it meant that her daughter may have to. That night, after Karina had already smoked her customary 3 cigarettes, Keiko decided to offer Karina another cigarette. Karina needed no further encouragement, and simply smiled and nodded. Karina inhaled deeply and blew a long stream of smoke all the way to the ceiling. For the first time, Karina noticed that there was enough smoke in her lungs for another exhale. Upon seeing this, her mother smiled knowingly. She knew then that her daughter was getting hooked. The next night, Karina brought her own pack of cigarettes with her and didn't wait for her Mom to encourage her. She simply lit up after dinner. "I've decided I can smoke four cigarettes a day, Mom, " she said. Her Mom just smiled and nodded. Karina continued to smoke her four cigarettes for the next week or so and then, without informing Keiko, began to smoke more often. When asked about it by her mother, Karina simply said, "Oh, I only have three more weeks to smoke, so I might as well smoke when I want." That won't hurt me, will it? I won't start coughing in the morning like you, will I" "Of course not, Karina, I smoke 1 and half pack a day and for 25 years, since I am 12. Don't worry." The next day she quietly slipped her pack of Salem 100s into her purse in the morning and took them with her to school. On the way to school, she stopped in the park and managed to sneak a cigarette without anyone noticing her. Feeling relieved that no one had seen her, she made the same stop on the way home. With encouragement from her Mom, Karina happily worked her way up to about 8 cigarettes a day for the next two weeks. She had two in the morning with her Mom, one on the way to school, one on the way home, and four with her mother after school. On weekends, she kept the same schedule, never smoking except for her allotted times. She inhaled deeply each and every time, without a worry. Until Field Hockey started, that is. The first day of practice called for wind sprints, ten of them! Karina had never had problems like this before! What was the problem? She had heard in school that smoking left you short of breath, but she didn't smoke that much. Not nearly as much as her Mom, or even as much as those girls she always saw in front of the school. Those girls got cut from the team last year, she realized. She told the coach she was just getting over the flu, and she'd do much better the next day. On the way home from school that night, she decided not to smoke, because she didn't want to be so short of breath. But as she walked the mile and a half to her house, she could not stop thinking about smoking! She felt somewhat jittery and anxious for no apparent reason and could not get her mind off the contents of her purse. "What is wrong with me?," she thought. Oh well, I guess I just like it, that's all. So she made her now customary stop at the park and lit up. As she crushed out her cigarette and blew out her last wisp of smoke, she noticed that she now could concentrate on things other than smoking, and that she generally felt more alert and less nervous. "This is weird, " she thought to herself. She was now not only concerned about her lack of performance on the hockey field, but also about her newfound smoking habit. That night, after smoking her seventh cigarette, she asked her Mom, "Mom, can you run?" "What do you mean, dear?" said Keiko. "I mean can you run, like play sports, even though you smoke so much?" Her Mom just giggled and said "I am out of breath to walk the stairs. Sorry, honey." Keiko realized that maybe she was too blunt with her daughter about the realities of smoking, and tried to backpedal. "But that takes a long time, honey, don't worry, you're going to quit in a week anyway. We both will!" "I guess you're right Mom. The season doesn't start for 3 more weeks anyway, and I'm going to show you how to quit!" She continued to question her Mom. "Mom, when did you start smoking?" "I started when I was 13 years old when I was in Tokyo," came the reply. "Why do you want to know, dear?" "Oh, I don't know, I was just wondering how you got to smoke so much that you couldn't quit," said Karina. "Oh, that's an easy answer, Karina. Once you get used to it, you smoke more and more and more until you reach level. You just can't help it. Even when I only smoke 10 cigarette each day, I still couldn't quit. I realize this when I am 14." With that answer, Keiko again realized that she may have been too blunt with her daughter and again tried to backpedal. "But don't worry, Karina, you don't smoke 10 cigarettes each day, you only smoke 5, right?" You will be fine." "You're right, Mom," she said. Her Mom didn't realize that she was sneaking cigarettes both to and from school, as well as one at home before her Mom arrived. Karina didn't realize that her Mom was stretching the truth, and was hooked on nicotine almost immediately. Karina continued to struggle at Field Hockey for the next few days, but she improved slightly as she ran more and more. Her skill was enough to allow her to overcome her decreased lung capacity. But she was worried about being so out of breath and decided to take action. On the way home from school, she decided to stop at the 7-11 and buy a pack of Salem Lights. "Light cigarettes! This way I'll be able to finish the bet with my Mom and have more breath! I only have five more days of smoking, hopefully this will help." Although she was extremely nervous and made sure that no one she knew was in the store, she managed to purchase her cigarettes. Although she was just 16, it was difficult to tell her age, so she had no problem with the clerk asking for ID. As she hurried to the park to light up, she felt that she had solved her problem. With the first drag from her new cigarettes, she could tell the difference. "These taste like air," she thought, and quickly took another, deeper, drag. And then another. As she blew out the smoke from her third drag in five seconds, she at last felt relief. That gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach disappeared and she was able to relax. She finished this cigarette in record fashion and started home. As she walked in the front door and set her books down on the table, a strange feeling hit her. It was the same feeling she now got regularly in the mornings and during the afternoons at school. It was an antsy, nervous feeling throughout her body. Although she didn't fully realize it yet, it was a craving for nicotine. She immediately sat down at the table, fumbled in her purse for her lighter, and lit up. As she inhaled, she again realized that these were light cigarettes, and she compensated by taking very long puffs and even held in the smoke for several seconds before exhaling. After four or five inhales, she again felt a sudden wave of relief over her entire body. "Ah, that's better," she thought. "I must be extremely nervous about this Field Hockey thing." Concentrating on her cigarette, Karina failed to notice that her Mom had arrived home, opened the front door, and was now watching her from the living room. "Hi, Karina!," said Keiko. Startled, Karina spun around, cigarette in hand and said. "Oh, hi Mom, I, um, decided to smoke because I was bored. Nothing else to do." "You don't have to explain anything to me, Karina, except where you get those cigarettes!" "Oh, these, well, I wanted to see what these taste like. That's all. Plus, they're not as bad for you, and I don't want to do any permanent damage to my lungs." "Honey, you're too young to worry about that stuff," replied Keiko, somewhat worriedly. Not worried about her daughter's health, but about the fact that her daughter had switched to Light cigarettes. "Maybe she can quit easy now," she thought to herself. Never having smoked Lights herself, Keiko had no idea what might happen. Keiko then joined Karina at the table and lit up her usual Salem 100. "Can I try one of those?," she then said to her daughter. "OK, Mom, but you just lit that one!" "Here, you have this one, and I try one of yours," she said, handing her cigarette to her daughter. "Mom! OK, but just this once. I like the Lights better." With that, the two women then sat and smoked their cigarettes. Karina noticed an immediate difference and felt somewhat light-headed after smoking her third cigarette in 45 minutes. Keiko, on the other hand, couldn't help but comment to her daughter, "These taste like air." Upon hearing this, Karina thought that it was weird that , after smoking for only 5 weeks, her reaction would be so similar to her Mom's. Later that same night, Karina smoked her seventh and eighth cigarettes of the day, one at 6:30, and another at 7:30. This was the earliest in the day that she had finished her usual allotment, but she couldn't seem to help it. Around 8:30, she began to feel jittery, and lit up again in the living room. "Karina, how many cigarettes you smoked today?" asked her Mom in her usual broken English. "Oh, Mom, five, no six, because you made me smoke that extra one!" came the reply. "Karina, don't worry, I am just wondering. Don't snap off my head. I don't care how many cigarettes you smoke. You will quit in five days, right? So it doesn't matter." "You're right, Mom, sorry," said her daughter, somewhat embarrassed. Feeling somewhat comforted by her mother's words, Karina decided to smoke once more before going to bed, her tenth cigarette of the day. The next day went as usual, with Karina smoking before and after breakfast, and on the way to school. She noticed, however, that, with the Salem Lights, she smoked faster and inhaled much more deeply. "It's ok," she reasoned, "these are Light cigarettes." In her third period class, Karina noticed the usual jittery feeling coming back, much sooner that it usually did at school. During fourth period, the nervousness was almost overwhelming, and when the bell rang for lunch, she knew what she had to do. Because her school had an open lunch policy, she was free to leave the campus as she pleased. Although she usually brought her lunch and ate with friends, she excused herself and instead walked out of the school and down the street. As soon as she was two blocks from the school, she could take it no more! "I've got to have a cigarette," she thought. So she discreetly opened her purse, pulled out a cigarette and lit up very quickly. As she inhaled on her cigarette and was replacing her lighter, she noticed that in the bottom of her purse was a half filled pack of Salem 100s. "Oh geez," she thought. "I'll just give those back to Mom tonight." Being very careful not to be seen, Karina quickly and completely inhaled her cigarette and felt much better. As she walked back towards the school, she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Hey, Karina, I didn't know you were a smoker?" As Karina turned around, she noticed one of the girls, a Filipina, she had always seen smoking in front of school. "I'm Marissa, remember me from Field Hockey last year?" "Oh yeah, hi. I'm not really a smoker, I just have this bet with my Mom to get her to quit. I'll quit in a few days," said Karina, very embarrassed. Marissa was very good looking, and Karina always wondered how someone like that could smoke. "That's cool, I smoke too you know. But I was wondering, could I bum a cigarette off you? I haven't had one since this morning and I'm really dying, " Marissa pleaded. "Oh sure," replied Karina, but you have to promise that you won't tell anybody that you saw me smoking. Promise?, Karina said, as she reached into her purse and pulled out one of the Salem 100s from her old pack. Karina held the cigarette in her hand, as if to pull it back if Marissa didn't promise. "I promise, I promise!," Marissa pleaded. Karina then gave her the cigarette and Marissa quickly pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit up. After a few very deep drags, Marissa exclaimed "Wow, these are strong!! When I first started two years ago, I smoked those full-strength ones. But I switched to Lights because I was worried about, you know, Lung Cancer and stuff. But you know what, I smoke like twice as many every day. I'm almost up to a pack." Karina just nodded and said "Look, I really have to go. Remember that promise!" Karina then quickly headed off back to school, trying not to be seen with the well known smoker Marissa. On her way home from school, Karina hurried to the park and quickly lit up her fifth cigarette that day, feeling very relieved after several deep inhales. As she sat smoking on the bench in the park, Karina thought about what had happened that day. Marissa was really good at Field Hockey in junior high, but she just couldn't keep up with the other girls last year. She got cut from the team. Was it because she smokes? And what about her comment about the light cigarettes? It was true that she was smoking more, but was it because of the light cigarettes? Karina felt much better and less worried after finishing her cigarette. After she got home, she immediately sat down at the table and reached into her purse. Before she had even realized it, she was already inhaling another cigarette. "That was weird," she thought. When her Mom got home, Karina joined her at the table and both women lit up together. When Keiko finished her cigarette, she crushed out her cigarette next to Karina's, which her daughter had already finished. "You are faster than your Mom! But don't worry, only three more days until we quit together," said her Mom. Karina thought that it was kind of strange that her Mom always brought up that subject, even though she had always said it was impossible to quit. For the first time, Karina realized that it was going to be hard to quit smoking. "I'm a lot tougher than my Mom. I'm sure I can do it," she thought to herself. That night Karina smoked four more cigarettes. For the next few days, Karina continued to smoke 10 Salem Lights a day. If she attempted to cut down, she was unable to concentrate on anything but her lack of a cigarette. During lunch at school, she managed to avoid Marissa as well as the other students while sneaking her now necessary lunch time cigarette. As for Field Hockey, she continued to struggle and was demoted to second string. She noticed that her lungs now burned if she was forced to sprint more than a few yards. Smoking light cigarettes didn't seem to help. "Oh well, once I stop smoking after tomorrow, I will show them! One more day" she thought. As she went home that afternoon, she realized that after tomorrow she had to quit smoking. As she finished her cigarette in the park on the way home, she remained worried about what was to happen the next day and quickly lit another cigarette, which seemed to calm her down enough to continue home. As Keiko arrived home, Karina was seated at the table, smoking a cigarette. "Oh, Hi Mom," she said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke that seemed to go on forever. Keiko then sat down beside her and lit her own cigarette. After a few more pulls from her cigarette, Karina crushed her Salem Light into the ashtray. "Well, honey, tomorrow is last day smoking for both of us, so we should make the most of it!," she said to Karina. "What do you mean Mom?" "I mean we should have party to celebrate!" Keiko then proceeded to the refrigerator where she removed a bottle of Chardonnay and placed it on the table. Karina certainly thought that this was strange, but really didn't object, other than to say "Mom, I'm only 16!" Keiko then poured two glasses of the wine. "To quitting smoking," she said, holding up her glass. Karina didn't really like the wine, but she managed to finish her glass in about 15 minutes. This was her first ever brush with alcohol, and she certainly felt the affects after only one glass. "Wow, Mom, am I drunk?" she giggled. "I don't know, Karina, but please smoke! This is almost last day." Keiko, although she was somewhat confident about the situation, still was somewhat worried. So she decided that Karina should smoke as much as possible, with her assistance (as well as the wine's), just to firmly place the hook. "No problem Mom, I'm getting used to smoking," Karina giggled, cigarette and lighter already in hand. As Keiko watched her daughter inhale smoke deeply into her young lungs, she felt somewhat ashamed that she had done this to her daughter. But those thoughts were quickly dismissed. If she caught her daughter smoking a cigarette after tomorrow, then she will have won the bet, and she wouldn't have to quit. She could then help her Karina to quit. Karina didn't drink any more wine, but did manage to smoke 6 more cigarettes that night, for a total of 13 that day. As she woke up the next morning, Karina realized that she had smoked all her Salem Lights and had no more. Oh well, she would just have to smoke her Mom's cigarettes. No use in buying any more Lights today, because they were quitting tomorrow. Karina then got up and went into the kitchen and sat down. "Mom, can I bum a cigarette off you? I smoked all mine last night." Keiko just smiled and retrieved her a fresh pack of Salem 100s. Karina then lit up and inhaled deeply, as if she was still smoking her Salem Lights. "Whoah, " she thought, "this feels really good!" The two women then sat silently and finished their cigarettes. As the day proceeded, Karina smoked her usual number of cigarettes: 2 in the morning, one on the way to school, one at lunch, and 2 in the park after school. The fact that they were full flavor cigarettes didn't seem to hinder her at all. As she finished her last cigarette before heading home, Karina began to get very nervous about the next day. "What if I can't do it?," she thought. "Why did I start smoking? I'm so stupid! Mom was right!" For the first time, Karina admitted to herself that she was addicted to smoking. Karina had discovered what millions of young women before her had already found out. There was little discussion among the two women that night. Keiko seemed very nervous and chain smoked all night. "What if I have to really quit? I'll die!," she thought to herself. Karina retreated to her bedroom, where she smoked and finished her homework. Over the course of the evening, Karina smoked five more of her Salem 100s. At 10pm, Keiko ducked her head into Karina's bedroom and saw her daughter laying in bed, with a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the nightstand. Tomorrow's the day! Good luck!" Karina just nodded and her Mom left the room. "Does she know I'm addicted?, " Karina wondered. She then finished her cigarette and turned out the light, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the darkness. Karina was awakened by the sound of the door opening. "I'll take those, young lady, " said her Mom, grabbing the pack of Salem 100s laying on Karina's nightstand. "No problem Mom, what time is it?" "Five am," said Keiko, "I just wanted to make sure you didn't cheat." "Why would I cheat?," Karina said bravely. She then placed her head back on the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. After about ten minutes, she realized the effort was futile and sat up in bed. "Five am and I already want a cigarette. Great.", she thought. She then tried to imagine how her poor Mom must feel. But she quickly overcame any feelings of compassion for her Mom. "This whole stupid thing was her idea," she thought. Getting up, she found her Mom seated at the table, reading the newspaper. "OK, how do I make sure that YOU don't cheat," she said to Keiko. "I guess we go by the honor system," came the reply. "You don't smoke, I don't smoke." Keiko seemed very confident, but in reality had already smoked a cigarette that morning at 4:30, and then showered before she went into Karina's room. She had no intention of quitting, realizing the futility of even trying. All she needed to do was catch her daughter smoking and she would be home free. "I searched the house and I think I throw away all cigarettes," Keiko said. In fact, she had hidden an opened pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the kitchen drawer, hoping that Karina would find them. She carefully counted 9 cigarettes in the pack. "I may have missed some. If you find any, please throw them away," she continued, hoping this hint would aid her efforts. Keiko of course also had her own personal supply hidden in the car. Karina then got ready for school and left rather early. As she made her way to school, she looked wistfully at the park, where she had spent many hours happily smoking her beloved cigarettes. All she could think about was the feeling of smoke in her lungs and how she missed it. Oh, how she missed it! She was barely able to see straight, let alone concentrate on anything but getting a cigarette. She arrived at school very early that day, and there was still 45 minutes before the first bell. She wondered what she was going to do. Should she really try to quit? As she sat down in front of the school, she noticed a very familiar, enticing smell. Looking behind her, she caught sight of Marissa, perhaps 20 yards away, sitting and smoking. "Oh my god," she thought to herself. "What should I do?" Without giving it another thought, she raised her nicotine deprived body and hurriedly walked over to Marissa and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, what's up," Marissa said, smoke emanating from her mouth with every syllable. "Not much, just thought I'd say hi," said Karina. "By the way, you owe me a cigarette," she said, smiling. "Oh yeah, I guess I do. Here" she said as she handed a Marlboro Light 100 to Karina. "Do you have a light too?," Karina added, realizing that her Mom had taken her lighter that morning. Karina quickly lit her cigarette and proceeded to smoke it in front of the school. As she watched Karina hungrily consume her first cigarette of the day, Marissa smiled and said "Slow down girl! Talk about a nicotine fit!" Karina smiled, somewhat embarrassed, realizing that she was indeed having a major nic fit. After a few moments, Karina stepped on her cigarette and said goodbye to Marissa, hoping that no one had seen her. As she was walking away, Karina realized that this cigarette was her first ever without menthol, and she liked it. Feeling somewhat relaxed, Karina headed into school. Her first two periods went rather well, but there was still a nagging feeling of emptiness, like something was missing in the middle of her body. Every time she thought about it, it seemed to get worse until she finally decided that she had no choice but to buy cigarettes at lunch. After what seemed like an eternity, the lunch bell finally rang. Karina was the first one out of the room, as she hurriedly made her way out of the school and down the street to the Circle K. She actually ran part of the way. As she reached the counter, she noticed the Marlboros were right there on the counter, and she didn't even have to ask for them. She quickly grabbed a pack of Marlboro 100s, and payed the required $2.50 to the woman behind the counter. Karina had already began opening the pack of cigarettes when the woman asked "Matches with that?". "Oh yes," replied Karina, realizing that she had no lighter. Karina then walked out the door, took two paces to the right and finished opening her cigarettes. As she removed the gold foil from the box, she realized that these cigarettes had orange filters. "Oh well, they'll do the job, even if they are ugly," she thought. She then awkwardly struck a match and held the lit flame to the end of her cigarette. As she breathed in deeply, her shoulders rose noticeably, and she felt a warm tingling sensation in her chest. Holding the smoke in her lungs to savor the feeling, she finally exhaled, and her shoulders slumped to their normal positions. "Wow, this is a cigarette," she thought as she began inhaling once again. Never before had she tasted such a strong tobacco flavor. After 12 puffs, the cigarette was gone and Karina felt normal once again. Looking at her watch, she realized that it had only taken her 10 minutes to arrive at the store, purchase the cigarettes and smoke one. She had fifty more minutes to go. For the first time in the day, she was able to think clearly and decided to eat her lunch and then go back to school. Of course she was no sooner done with her lunch when she felt the need to smoke another of her new cigarettes. Karina now realized she was a smoker, and couldn't easily quit. It was just too hard. What would everyone say when they found out? She quickly dispelled this notion and walked into school. Later, as she was finishing her sixth period class, she again felt a nagging craving for a cigarette. "It's only been two hours, what's wrong with me?," she thought to herself. Most of the students leave after sixth period, except for the athletes like Karina; they stay for practice. Karina had about 15 minutes before Field Hockey practice was to begin, and she made the most of it, hurrying out to the front of the school and quietly lighting up. After another agonizing day of Field Hockey practice, in which she couldn't even keep up with second string, Karina showered and began walking home at 5:30. Looking at her watch, she realized it had been another 2 hours without a cigarette, and she could definitely tell. It was very difficult to concentrate on anything but her desperate need to inhale cigarette smoke. "This sucks, "she thought. "I kind of like smoking, but I don't like HAVING to smoke so much. Shit!!" Reaching into her bag, she quickly removed another Marlboro 100 and lit up, inhaling quickly and deeply. Just then the thought hit her. "Shit, I'm supposed to have quit today! I can't smoke at home tonight! What the hell am I going to do?" Pondering her options, Karina continued to puff needily on her cigarette. By the time she passed the park, she had already finished her long cigarette. "I need to think," she thought, and sat down on a bench. She knew from her experiences over the past few weeks that it was going to be very difficult not to smoke for the rest of the evening. "I'll die," she thought. "I guess the only thing I can do is to smoke again and hope it lasts." With that thought, she again reached into her bag and removed her pack of Marlboro 100s. Lighting up her sixth cigarette of the day, she concentrated on taking long puffs and holding the smoke in for long periods of time, techniques that she had noticed had given her more satisfaction in the past. She also counted the number of inhales, and when she reached 15, the cigarette was too small to allow any more meaningful nicotine. Holding in the smoke for the final time, she held her breath as long as she could, and when she finally released it, only the slightest wisp of smoke escaped from her young mouth. Feeling extremely satisfied, in fact almost lightheaded, she headed home. "That ought to do it!," she reasoned. Arriving home that night, Karina noticed that it was already after 6, and her Mom would be arriving home soon. So she quickly went in to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She also sprayed herself vigorously with her favorite perfume and put two sticks of bubble gum in her mouth to help hide the smell of her addiction. As her Mom pulled into the driveway, Karina jumped on the couch and turned on the TV. "Oh, hi Mom," Karina said nonchalantly as Keiko walked into the house. She noticed that her Mom was also chewing gum. "Hi dear, how was your day?," her Mom asked as she sat down at the table. "Oh, the usual," responded her daughter. Keiko got up as if to begin making dinner and opened the drawer where she had hidden the cigarettes. One, two �nine! "Damn!," she thought. "Maybe Karina didn't smoke today." Keiko had kept up her usual smoking during the day, inhaling her 15 Salem 100s on the way to work , at breaks (she usually took 3 in the morning and 3 in the afternoon), during lunch (when she usually smoked 3 more), and on the way home. But now was the time when she always smoked her 15 remaining cigarettes in the five hours until bedtime. What the hell was she going to do? She was already feeling the burn of nicotine withdrawal and she had only been home a few minutes!! "It's all in my head, " she repeated to herself. "I can do this." Karina, on the other hand, was still feeling fine and had no problem starting the conversation. "So, how was not smoking today?," she asked her mother. "Oh, um, it was fine, dear," shouted Keiko from the kitchen. "How about you?" "No problems here, Mom," she shouted back. There was no further talk. Keiko thought it strange that her daughter, who just a few weeks before was bragging that she could quit with no problem, had not bragged or harassed her about quitting for quite some time before yesterday. And today she was also silent. The two women finished eating around 8 and were seated at the table. Throughout the entire meal, there was hardly any conversation. Karina noticed that, as her Mom picked up her fork, her hand trembled slightly. "Honey, you don't usually smell so nice. What happened?," Keiko quizzed her daughter, who snapped back "What's the matter, can't I smell nice sometimes?!" "Why you nasty girl! How dare you snap at me like that!," snapped back the usually even-tempered Keiko. "Whatever, Mom!," Karina yelled back and stomped into her room. Both women were obviously very short-tempered for some reason! As she lay down on her bed, Karina caught sight of her purse and, realizing its contents, began to crave a cigarette. Keiko, on the other hand, was already halfway to her car. She realized that Karina would probably be stewing for quite some time and now was her perfect chance to smoke. She grabbed for her cigarettes hidden in the glove box and, in a single motion, opened the pack and pushed in the car lighter. After what seemed like an eternity, the lighter popped back out and she was finally able to inhale her nicotine. She just sat in her car seat and absorbed as much smoke as possible with each of her inhales. She was very quickly done with her first cigarette and quickly transitioned into another. Karina was meanwhile miserable. Her whole body from her head down to her toes, craved the drug which she had unwittingly become addicted to. She opened her purse and pulled out her pack of Marlboro 100s. Staring at it, she sighed, realizing that she needed to light one and inhale it several times to even begin to feel better. Resigned to her fate, she grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and opened her door. She planned on spilling the beans. She was now a smoker, she would tell her Mom, and they had both better get used to it. But when she looked around, her Mom was nowhere to be found. She must have gone upstairs to sulk in her room. So Karina quickly slid across the room, opened the front door and very quietly closed it. Her cigarette was lit within five seconds of closing the door. As she inhaled deeply, she felt a sudden wave of relief as the nicotine entered her bloodstream. She exhaled her first drag and began another when she noticed her mother staring at her from across the lawn. Karina, caught in the middle of a huge drag, embarrassingly blew out her smoke and looked down to the ground. "Karina, you are smoking!," said her Mom. "Mom, I just um�decided I didn't want to quit smoking just yet. I'm sorry. You should be happy, you won our bet," Karina said softly. Keiko had mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was relieved that she could now smoke openly in front of her daughter. But on the other hand, she was sad to see that, because of her stupid addiction, her daughter had now become a smoker just like her. "Karina honey, don't apologize. Let's go inside," said her mother. The two women then went inside and sat at the table. Karina sat her pack of Marlboro 100s and her lighter on the table and placed her cigarette in the empty ashtray. "Karina, may I have cigarette?," said Keiko. "Sure Mom, you must be desperate," replied Karina. "At last you understand," her mother said as she lit up one of her daughters cigarettes. "Now Karina, I am actually very sad that you smoke now. I feel very bad that I make you smoke, and I hope you quit before it gets too late." "What do you mean too late?," Karina asked. "Karina, I know you have watched me smoke for many years. I have to smoke. Every hour, every day. You only smoke a few cigarettes a day, so I want to help you stop before you are like me and have to smoke everywhere you go, always." "You mean you don't even like smoking, Mom?," Karina asked. "Well, yes, I do enjoy it sometimes, but sometimes it is a big pain, like in movies or on planes. We have Japanese saying: smoking is like breathing oxygen. It is not really fun, but don't try to stop doing it." "But you didn't smoke today and you seemed to be fine," said Karina. "Actually, to tell you the truth, I cheated�all day," her mother said and then smiled. "Karina honey," she added, "remember last year when I tried to quit and got those patches? Well, I have almost all of them left. Please take them." Keiko then reached out and touched Karina's hand. "Mom, I really appreciate that but I CAN quit if I want. I just don't want to, that's all. I don't need patches or anything. I'm only 16 and a half." Keiko became visibly sad at this comment by her daughter and silently finished her cigarette. "She is very stubborn girl," she thought. The rest of the evening went normally, with neither woman mentioning their failed attempt to quit smoking. Over the next few months, Karina continued to smoke about 10 cigarettes each day, a bit more on weekends. She decided that she liked Salem 100s the best and stuck with them, now taking them wherever she went. She now became a regular in front of the school at lunch and made several new smoking friends, Marissa included. As summer break approached, she put less and less energy into her sports and was relieved when Field Hockey season ended. She often thought about trying to quit, but always came back for more. She realized that, even after only 4 months of smoking, cigarettes had started to take over her life. Every day she smoked with her Mom both before and after breakfast. Keiko realized that Karina had virtually copied her smoking style exactly. The inhales were of equal length, both women held in their smoke for about the same time, and tilted their heads back slightly to exhale. Keiko also noticed that after the first exhale, smoke would appear from Karina's nostrils for the next two or three breaths. Keiko had no doubt in her mind that her beautiful daughter was fully addicted to her cigarettes. During the three month summer break, Karina found that the extra free time, as well as her new friends, caused her to smoke even more, and soon she was smoking 15 cigarettes a day. When she would go out with her Mom, both women would light up at seemingly every opportunity. "You smoke too much," Keiko told her daughter on more than one occasion. "Look who's talking," Karina would reply, realizing that her Mom had no comeback. One night in July, the two women decided to go see a movie. Keiko smoked right up to the door, putting her cigarette out in the ash can on the way into the theater. Karina only smoked one cigarette in the car and none in front of the theater. She waited patiently while her Mom finished her Salem 100. The two women sat through 5 previews, lasting about 10 minutes and then the movie began. It was a Spike Lee film, and Karina didn't realize the length was well over two hours. After about two hours in the theater, Keiko noticed her daughter seemed very fidgety. Finally the movie ended. They had arrived late and were therefore seated near the front, and had to wait for everyone else to leave first. Keiko watched sadly as her daughter opened her purse and pulled out her box of Salem 100s as they were filing out of the theater. After making their way through the lobby, both women had cigarette and lighter in hand upon reaching the door. Karina was first to light up, and inhaled twice without exhaling, something her mother had never seen her do before. As they walked to the car, Keiko realized Karina was addicted as she was. The next time they went to a movie together, Keiko noticed that Karina lit a fresh cigarette and smoked it before going into the theater. Near the end of the summer, it happened. Karina woke up at her usual time and all she did was sit up and breath. She suddenly felt something catch in her throat and started coughing. It wasn't an uncontrollable cough, but something which needed to be done. After a few minutes, she was able to catch her breath and went out into the kitchen. She lit a Salem 100 and waited for her Mom to come downstairs. Karina was often the first one up. After a few minutes, she heard noises upstairs and then her Mom's usual morning cough. She realized that her cough had sounded remarkably similar to her Mom's, but of course much shorter in duration. She again thought of quitting, but remembered the difficulty she had when she tried to quit before, and she smoked much more now. During her junior year in high school, Karina turned 17 and shortly thereafter became a pack a day smoker, inhaling her nicotine well over 200 times daily. She found that she needed to smoke not only at lunch, but also between classes, something which she did with great difficulty, because there were only ten minutes available. She often saw Marissa smoking between classes as well. She tried out for the basketball team, but quit after only one practice. She resigned herself to no more athletics. Her Mom often apologized to her. "I'm so sorry, Karina," she would say as they smoked together. "Please forgive me." The end.