The Last Cigarette

[Another short story]

      John put the cigarette to his mouth again. He felt the moist filter between his lips. And then he inhaled. He inhaled as deeply as his lungs allowed, just as he had with every previous drag. And then he held it. He held it like it was weed rolled in that paper instead of tobacco. Standing there with the smoke still in his lungs, John tried to think of how many cigarettes he had smoked before this one- ever. He tried to think of how many cigarettes he had smoked throughout his entire life- from his first to this one now. And in doing so, he would figure out how many he would ever have. John exhaled.

      He could barely see the smoke as it lingered in the air for a second, and vanished with a breeze he barely felt. His first cigarette was when he was seventeen- no, sixteen. He had been sixteen years old. His friend, his best friend, had given it to him- Peter, fuckin' good ol' Petey.

      They had went to the park- a shitty park with a shitty playset, a few blocks from Petey's house. It was on the lake. John pictured the dark blue-green water, rolling in slowly. It lapped at the giant rocks they sat on, as they smoked their cigarettes. They had dragged on their cigs as if they had been dragging on cigs for years, as if they knew what the fuck they were doing, as if smoking was a professional sport and they were the fuckin' champions. They were cool. John remembered that, and he laughed quietly to himself. The man standing next him- the one in the security uniform, looked him with slight suspicion. John took another deep inhale from his cigarette.

      The sixteen year old John did too- well, not as deeply. After all, that John would still have hundreds, thousands, of cigarettes to smoke after that. But he still savoured it just as much as fifty six year old John did now. He and Petey had smoked the whole pack there in that park, over the course of what- four, five hours? John couldn't quite remember, but he remembered how he had felt. He had felt cool. He had felt in control. He had felt like he was fuckin' invincible. God himself couldn't fuck with him if he had come out of the heavens with all the lightning and all the fire and all the other shit he had. John had felt free.

      John looked at the long span of double fence which stretched from his left all the way to his right and all the way around back to his left. He couldn't see the fence behind him or behind the massive brick buildings, but he knew it was there. He looked at the spirals of barbed wire, which rolled atop the chain link fence.

      John looked at the bubbling water rolling over the pebbles in front of the boulders he and Petey were sitting on now. They sat there for hours until the sky wasn't fully lit by the sun, so it took on a deep, dark blue with only a slight orange tint- not quite night. They sat there and talked, and smoked, and talked some more, and smoked some more. They talked about, as far as John was concerned, everything. They talked about cars- which ones were faster, which ones looked cooler, which ones were their dream cars. They talked about school- and those fuckin' cunt teachers who didn't know shit. They talked about girls, obviously- and what they would do with- shit, what was her name? John couldn't remember, but he remembered talking about what they would do with her if they were alone with her. Consensual of course. They had gone into some pretty specific details too- but hey, they were teenage boys. They were filled with raging hormones.

      So what was your excuse now John? Raging hormones? At fifty six? Well, he had been fifty three when it had happened. Raging hormones hadn't made sixteen year old John kill anything either. The worst he had done was steal a pack of cigarettes. Well, technically Petey had stolen them, but John had been an accomplice. John had been the lookout while the guy had gone to take a piss. John wasn't gonna blame Petey anymore than himself though. They had agreed to split the pack even- and they did, sitting there by that lake for hours. John had coughed up both his fuckin' lungs, as well as his stomach and intestines, in the days following- but goddamn had he felt great. No cigarette after that was ever as good, yet he still went through almost a pack a day. Well, this cigarette, this one here, which was getting close to the the filter now, just might be as good. Fuck, it might even be better. No- maybe not. John glanced at the prison guard standing a few feet away from him. He wished it was Peter- fuckin' good ol' Petey. But Petey was dead now. He had died of lung cancer four years ago, before all this shit started. Petey had been a two-pack-a-day guy.

      Some deep down part of John was glad- maybe not glad, but relieved, that Petey wasn't alive right now. That he wasn't alive to see John like this... because John was ashamed.

      What a fuckin' selfish asshole. You don't want your best friend alive just so he doesn't see you like this? Fuck. That same deep down part of John- or maybe it was a different deep down part, believed that being relieved his best friend was dead just so he couldn't see this, was worse than what he had done three years ago.

      That thought came up to the surface- up from the deep down, and John consciously debated it for a minute. Then he saw the barbed wire , then he felt the cigarette between his lips again. He threw away those thoughts- that debate. Who the fuck cared? It wouldn't matter soon anyways. It didn't matter because they would all be in the same goddamn place. Petey went by too much smoke to his lungs, she went by having her face smashed into the concrete ground of a back alley, to stop her screams. Her blood had smeared the grey of the concrete. And he- well, he would go by having a fuckin' needle stuck in his arm. John thought about that. Hell, even he didn't think that was fair.

      John inhaled deeply as the orange glow crept closer to the filter- almost there. Even this wasn't fair. Petey didn't get to savor his last cigarette. He didn't have the pleasure of really knowing which one would be his last. And the girl? John didn't know if she had smoked or not, but if she had she certainly hadn't had the pleasure of appreciating her last cigarette. No, because John had taken that pleasure away from her- for his own pleasure. Fuckin' selfish asshole.

      The fire of the cigarette burnt to the filter. That was it then. That was the last cigarette John would ever have. He didn't flick the butt to the ground like he usually did. He slowly crouched down, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. The guard watched him a little more intently- just a little. He had other things on his mind. John put the barely burning butt to the concrete ground and slowly pushed down, turning it between his thumb and middle finger as did. He forced the cigarette butt into the concrete. A bit of tobacco and paper smeared the ground. He continued to force it, as if he was forcing the life out of it, as if he was forcing out every bad thing from his life, as if he was forcing the life out of himself. He was killing himself, not these people. These people didn't truly know how much he deserved it- not as much as John knew.

      John stood up, releasing the crumpled, deformed filter from between his fingers. He looked at the guard.

      "It's finished. I'm ready."

      Some hours later John was strapped to the  table, looking up at the ceiling, the needle in his vein. He heard the soft hum of the machine as its cylinder pushed the fluid through the tube and into his vein- into his body. He felt it.

      John closed his eyes and tried to remember that day by the lake- with Peter, fuckin' good ol' Petey. He tried to remember the dark blue- green water slowly rolling over the rocks at their feet. He tried to remember that first cigarette. How many has he had since then? Hundreds? No, thousands. Who the fuck cared? He tried to remember that first one- that very first cigarette. He tried to remember how he had felt. He had felt cool. He had felt in control. He had felt invincible. He had felt like he could take on fuckin' God himself. He had felt-