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.
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