Cigarette Regret
A faint breath breathed in through my nose.She barks.
I love her, even if I hate her bark.
I pull another slow drag off my cigarette. My lungs fill with regret as my ribs begin to ache.
The slow exhale races against the inevitable cough.
It burns! The pain building at the base of my spine with each successive cough.
I feel a tingle at the base of my torso. A sensation I detest with every inch of my ailing body. The tingle transforms as it always has in the past.
Then comes the inevitable bolt of lightning shooting up from the base of my spine along the two sides of my vertebrae as liquid pours into my lungs from the microscopic tears these hard, loud coughs have forced open inside of me.
The feeling, which I cannot describe any more painfully or vividly than excruciating pain behind my ribs, is definitely something I would wish upon my enemies during an attack against me, but otherwise, I can't imagine desiring such cruel punishment against anybody capable of feeling such pain.
I'm crippled by the overwhelming sense of horror at the realization of what might be in store for my immediate future.
I fold over, barely maintaining my stance, and grasp my open palm against the wall, clinging with the friction of my skin, sweaty and oily, against it's barren surface in hopes of overcoming the weakening shaking of my foundations.
Another cough escapes, abandoning me, as it's pain overwhelms me.
I lean against the wall with more of my weight, clutching the base of my rib cage with my right forearm, palm open and squeezing the opposite side.
I stumble out onto the balcony, allowing the brick exterior to guide me onto her fence-protected concrete surface.
I spit the brown tar I just finished enjoying on the cement floor. The bright tints of red subtly suggest I pursue a different hobby, though the timing seems a little late in my internal dialogue's sarcastic opinion.
The cigarette slips away from me, marking its path against the side of my finger, claimed by the cold stone, as I try to straighten out my body and rise back up, feeling the dizziness strengthen as I regret the decision to step further away from communications to emergency help back inside the apartment.
My bones empty as my posture curves my spine into submission.
The pain sends another cough filled with blood down the brick wall to my right as my fingers maintain the force of my fall.
I find myself on my left knee as my right begins to submit.
Another playful bark. So young and so stupid. She'll never be a smoker. Her demise rests in the bags of cardboard nutrition I force feed her with little remorse and even less consideration.
She licks new light into my cheek now that I have dropped onto all fours. Her playfulness indicative of her misunderstanding, understandable for a my young puppy love.
With a snappy bark and another lick, I bounce back up on my feet.
I kick my nemesis away as she continues to burn and smoke three flights down to the sidewalk entrance of my building. I know she will return, for her absence is but only temporarily; she will soon have control of my thoughts, my needs, my desires, my finances, my loves.
Ironic how I pretend to have some measure of control, when in truth, she keeps my desires focused on her, over any other thoughts, my senses, my every need dictated and provided by the roots of her temptation.
The pain, exiting as quickly as it had entered, drags me one step deeper into my depression as I gasp one last time to fill my lungs with the city’s malnourishing gases.
The cough, a subtle reminder of her poisonous potential, as I pull the pack out of my pocket and drop it onto the concrete floor, the roof of my neighbor's balcony below. She seems curious of the burning device; another bark directed at the pack.
Happy little dog; not a care in the world; the positive light in the darkest of cities.
Litter and disease surround the greedy as they rodentiate below. Must be garbage pick up tomorrow morning for so many disgusting piles of refuse to line the sidewalk, dripping their toxic sludge into the sewer system along the street.
I turn away from the street to look into the apartment, sickened by my own diseased view of the world, a view of myself, a view of nothingness personified, though the pain begs to differ.
Her burden I carry alone, a pain I must inhale at least 100 times a day.
It never ends, but it subsides; though just long enough to let temptation carry me back to the next moment of death I spark a few hours later, if I'm lucky enough to withstand such a length of time away from her clutches.
I look down onto the stone where memories fade into blood starved stains I continue to cough out, as the seriousness of the evidence within each cough becomes more apparent. I search for my cane as I slide the door open.
She releases another charming bark, as I rest her pain along my fence.
The cigarette floats away into the gutter as the last cloud of smoke dissipates into the air below.
The smell of the wet tobacco coupled with the lingering odor of the smoke lures my naive canine to my fate; if only she had thumbs.
She smiles passed me as she leads me to her next adventure. Her lively leaps linger in my mind and draw wrinkles to my withered skin as I smile at her, unleashing a slew of playful barks.
I cough again.
My chin feels wet.
I wipe it away with my hand.
The reddened saliva in my palm now undeniably alerting me of the pain behind my ribs that I somehow managed to ignore with my arm's comforting grasp.
It hurts.
My ribs hurt.
Breathing hurts.
I’m not breathing.
I reach for my phone, unable to speak.
I realize I'm still on the balcony. I fall to the floor; half my body now across the entrance of the opened balcony door.
I crawl, pulling my body with my left arm, as I kick with both feet, my body on its side, my other arm still clutching my ribs.
Grab the phone, I wish I could order the young pup. Perhaps that's a trick I'll have to teach her one day. The thought sparks a smile, quickly stolen by the cough it conjures.
I reach for the edge of the rug with all my might.
One hard tug sends the cordless into arm's reach off the cheap coffee table I now am grateful I didn't replace with an expensive oak piece I couldn't afford anyway.
9 – 1 – 1 and send; damn cordless! That's end, not send.9 – 1 – 1 and talk!
It rings; she barks.
“Hello?” the operator asks me.
If only for a chance to breath, to let her now I need help.
"Helloo?" she frustrated checks again before her implied intent to disconnect.
"hhheelllpppp" I whisper ever so shallow, barely even creating sound at all. Amazing how important air is for such things as breathing, speaking, yelling, calling for help, etc.
If only one breath; one word could escape, but then which one. Do I ask for help again? Do I give my address? Perhaps just my name.
“Help...” I whisper again ever so faintly like an old, bed-ridden miser offering his last words as I feel my knees buckling against the surface they were just moments ago pushing their friction off of to edge me closer to my rescue. My legs collapse on their sides as I lay with the phone on top of my palm, unable to gather enough strength to clench it tightly.
"Is somebody there?" She asks with genuine concern, no longer implying her importance and rank among the common nobodies who frequent her service so regularly.
The phone slides down my palm onto the wooden floor hidden behind the wrinkled edge of the rug as my companion barks directions to the friendly phone operator.
“Sir? Hello?” she repeats, indicating she sensed the concern she should have offered when she first answered the phone. A tear forms in each of my eyes, the left for the pain and the right for the joy in knowing she didn't hang up on me. The strength to dial again was definitely not going to return to me.
I hear a knocking at the door.
I pray I left the door unlocked.
I pray it’s someone who has a set of my keys.
I pray, but He's stopped listening to me a long time ago.