Stubbed Cigarettes

      I'm laying under this 1992 Mitsubishi Expo, making sure all the connections aren't leaking.

      “What’s that?” asks the 5 year old girl I'm watching.

      “That's the engine,” I respond looking quickly at what she was pointing at.

      “What's that?” she asks pointing at something else.

      “That's the fan belt,” I respond again looking quickly.

      “What's that?” she asks pointing to the windshield washer fluid.

      “Listen, I'm doing something right now. I can't teach you how a car works. Go play in the backyard. I set up the swing set for you the other day.”

      “I know but I'm tired of playing alone,” she says sadly.

      How fucking annoying. She constantly needs attention. I can't even check to make sure the oil in the car is at the right level without her hovering and asking “Why” this and “What's that?” I came out here to escape my wife, the annoying cunt. Constantly worrying and nagging about money. Like fuck, I'm one person and I can only do so fucking much.

     I pull out a Maverick, and light it. I inhale the delicious piece of death. The smoke curling in my lungs and blackening what it touches. The purest joy of controlling your own death. I finish smoking my cigarette and throw it unthinking to the ground. I see Courtney pick it up out the corner of my eye as I continue assessing what work is left. I wonder if she will try to suck on it...

      As she touches the butt to her lips, I call out to her, “Hey, what are you doing?”

      “Nothing,” she throws the butt away from her as if it burned her, and it gives me an idea. I didn't argue with her. I returned my attention to what was under the hood.

***

      I light another Maverick, enjoying the way it burns. I go through my ritual, and instead of throwing it on the ground, I call Courtney to me.

      “Do you know why you shouldn't smoke cigarettes?” I ask, knowing she loves learning answers to questions.

    “Why” she asks, in her happy 5 year old voice.

      Instead of saying anything, I grab her right wrist and twist it so that her forearm is facing up. It is such beautiful, new, unharmed skin. This little person has no scars, she is still a pure human being. 

      I stub my cigarette out in the middle of her forearm, and she doesn't whimper or pull away once. She doesn't cry, she just says “That hurts.”

      “That's what happens inside your body when you smoke cigarettes.”

I let go of her wrist and continue to watch her, she doesn't move. She's just observing what's happening to her skin, like she is disconnected from the pain.

She trusts me enough to let me do anything, and it gives me an idea.

-Kiz
(This story continues on realitybykiz.blogspot.com)