Page 8 of Secondhand Smoke
Shewishedshe were drunk.
“Oh, sweetheart. What happened? You’ve been gone forever! I was worried sick.” Her mom grabbed her trembling shoulders.
Nell’s tongue was too heavy to lift and form any words, but she did manage a strangled noise that sounded like a blend of a grunt and a cry. If she could speak, she’d beg her mother to let her go.
She needed air. She needed space.
She spoke with her hands and pushed her mother away, and the others at the table started to rouse and move closer for a better look. Nell had reached her limit.
The kettle’s shriek reminded her of the tire’s screech, and she had to push past everyone that was circling her to get to her room. They all tried to calm her down, all tried to ask what was wrong.
Was she hurt? Did something happen? Why was she wet?
Nell held her breath. If she breathed, she would crumble, and there were too many eyes to witness it.
Instead of breathing or speaking, she simply waved a hand in an attempt to reassure them all that she was alright before retreating into her bedroom.
The moment her door was shut and locked, she fell to her knees and choked on the breath she’d been holding.
She scoured her pockets for the packs of cigarettes she’d just bought. Her heart sank as she took in the soggy box.
Each ragged gasp urged her forward.
Dumping them on the ground, she fell to her knees and searched through them for even one that was dry enough to light. Her hands brushed them, hoping for something.
None were dry, but they would have to do. She picked one up and fumbled with her lighter, attempting to flick a flame to life.
Countless attempts finally produced a spark, and several more brought a flame long enough to get to the butt of the cigarette.
At last, it lit, and she gulped lungfuls of smoke into her throat as if it were oxygen and she was rising from a drowning wave.
It was the second clear breath she’d taken all day.
The screaming kettle in her head quieted as the boiling softened and cooled.
Panic still clawed at her body and tore at her chest, but at least now she could take breaths deep enough to make it subside.
The smoke had been the only thing that helped three months ago, then slowly it started to help less. The alcohol she found hidden away when she was in middle school was next. She needed it more than normal people should.
In these moments, when she felt like a rag doll being tossed around, these were the only things that made her human again.
But after three months of relying on them the same way she relied on oxygen and water, their effects were weakening. They still helped, but now they only numbed her slightly.
She needed them more often, in larger quantities, or she needed to find something different.
She exhaled the last smoke of her first cigarette out the bedroom window and immediately grabbed another.
With her right hand, she held it to her lips, her left hand scratching at the softening pressure in her chest. The mix of salt and rainwater on her cheeks dried as time went on, leaving behind rough streaks.
By the time the feeling completely subsided, the guests had long since eaten their meals and left the house. One of the cigarette packs was completely gone, and one was stuffed under her mattress for safekeeping.
She grabbed the expensive bottle of perfume her mom had given her on her birthday a month ago and spritzed it over every corner of her room to get the smell away.
Her parents probably already knew, but she felt the need to hide it anyway, like a naughty child hiding candy wrappers.
She opened her bedroom door and peeked out. A small tray was on the ground outside her room, with a plate of food gone cold.
She picked it up and closed herself in once again to devour the meal out of necessity rather than enjoyment.
