My parents always smoked. So I suppose I could blame it on genes, though that just wouldn't be me, now would it? I am to blame for my own actions. It wasn't their influence that brought me tot his, I smoke of my own free will. They always smoked Virginia Slims, however, so I prefer those. I suppose it reminds me of a less dreary time in my life, when the world seemed a little brighter than the tomorrow that is my life.
I sat at the kitchen table, dropping the ashes just wherever they decided to fall. It was a horrible table. A fake gray and white marble table, cut in a rectangle, with smooth metal drilled onto the sides. The legs even folded out and had to be locked. It must have been old, the hinges were crusted red with rust. I was vaguely aware of my red afro wig, wafting about as I leaned back in the fold out chair beneath the table. Even the sun seemed to refuse entering my house through the window above the table.
There was a neat little mess of ash begining to pile up before I started on my third Virginia Slim. There was a gun on the table, did I tell you that? It was a Smith and & Wesson snub nose.
Lovely, isn't it? It just sits on the table quietly as I smoke. I prefer the silence, as if between two best friends that have been through everything together, so much that they didn't have to talk to one another, they simply knew. There was only one bullet in the chamber. I happened to write my name on it. But for whatever reason, the bullet did not come to me, one way or the other.
I put my last Virginia Slim out, crushing it against the table with my fingers. The house smelled like home now, just how I remembered it as a child. The smell that could never leave me.
My big red shoes squeeked as I went outside for a jog.
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