She held the nicely-rolled, tobacco-contained cylindrical paper in between her index finger and middle finger.
There was something so good about it, yet so wrong. She wasn’t a regular smoker. She inhaled those terrifyingly great black smoke when she felt she needed it, when her head said she deserved the pleasure after all hard work that has put her bones so visible if she walked nude. She knew cigarettes are bad for health, but her first try puts her to a realm of ecstasy, she thought she was going to be a different person.
She is a different person now, she realized. She was very careful that she would not get addicted to smoking. She promised herself the secret would seal with and within her only. On the exterior, she is a polite and shy young lady who looks as if her top priority is to be the top of her class. There are a few people who thought her goals and ambitions were more than a corporate woman and a million bucks like everyone else. Her unseen dreams are made of a series of vivid colours and unexpectedly intersecting lines, wild scribbles and plain cotton. A couple of cigarette boxes in two whole years is light and not harmful, she assumed. Her friends thought she is innocent and clean. The only thing stained was her lungs, and no one could see it.
Shifting perspective between the old her and the new her, the old her felt like a chuckle coming out every time she thought of the little tobacco-filled pieces. Her conscience is pretty clear, but not strong enough to ward off the temptation. She recalled having the filter hanging in between both lips, she stuttered. The worries she had was forced away, not by her, voluntarily.
But the cigarette alone.