Chapter Text
“Where are they, you little shit?”
The thirteen year old boy hid under the table, creeping out of sight, however brief he might be able to.
“Thieving bastard!”
He flinched at a loud crash, broken shards of bottle sliding across the dirty linoleum floor.
“I didn’t steal anything, dumbass!” The boy barked in defense, his only shield as he ducked and covered, barreling into his room. He slammed the door before a bottle could hit him.
The boy sank to the floor, back against the door. His mother hardly got out of her chair these days, but he still feared her bursting through the door. Eventually, the banging and crashing subsided and he crawled away from it, letting out tension it felt like had been welling up in him for hours. His limbs felt weak.
Carefully, the boy crept over to his bed, dropped to the floor and dug around under it until he found what his mother was aching for- the pack of cigarettes.
He’d have to put them back. His various attempts at helping seemed to only make things worse.
The boy examined the pack. She’d only gotten through half of it before she fell asleep and he’d taken it. He pulled one out, sniffed it. The stale, musky scent of old cigarette smoke permeated their trailer home, but up close- and not burning, there was something different about a plain unlit cigarette.
Earthier, warmer- like the brief moments his mother’s softness would crawl out from its cave, hands extended out, and the boy would collapse into her, falling asleep in her arms, to cartoons on the couch.
Then she’d wake up, annoyed and hungover, and kick him off of her.
The boy glanced at the door. The yelling had been replaced by snoring.
He looked back at the stick in his hand, rolling it in between his fingers.
The boy sat up and walked to his desk, fetching a candle-lighter. Then, he turned around and climbed over to the window. Dropping the lighter on his bed, he fumbled with the latches, until the window swung open.
The boy leaned his head into the nook. The window wouldn’t open far enough for him to stick his head out, but he figured the wind would carry the smell out, he figured. He picked up the lighter, and lit his first ever cigarette.
It was a bitter, harsh taste in his mouth when he inhaled. He stifled a cough, his lungs rejecting the smoke that came billowing into his lungs- until it all came back up, with the boy loudly hacking up smoke, thinking he was going to vomit- and then it was gone.
He stood still, for a moment, ears prickling, for any sound- a sign his mother would awaken, come rampaging through. But luck was on his side, she was silent.
The boy looked back at the cigarette still in his hand. He let out a quiet trill, and stubbed it out on the windowsill. They weren’t so good, after all.