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.
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