The Addiction

Cigarette number one-- a desperate drag followed by a hesitant exhale. It provided some initial relief if anything at all.
Cigarette number two--a prolonged breathe of smoke that was the real beginning of the chain of events that would follow. Inhaled in for thirty two seconds as counted by myself.
Cigarette number three--hardly happened as it left as quickly as was lit. Held in for approximately 3.5 seconds as counted by my microwave timer.
Cigarette number four--was followed by a cup of coffee and was quite brief because I seemed to have forgotten that boiled water had the wonderful effect of burning the inside of your mouth if you’re too exhausted to remember to wait for it cool down first.
Cigarettes number five and six--followed suit after the coffee incident which lasted round about three minutes as guessed by myself. They’re short but sweet; they did the job.
Cigarettes number seven through to twenty-one--started to lose after around the late teens it became routine and unbelievable but I continued despite this.
I myself, after being in this room for approximately three days with the blinds shut and heating off in late January, have been working my way through my very large supply of cigarettes. I don’t know why anymore; I know that I need it though, otherwise my brain sways towards other things. You see cigarettes are enough to occupy me so my thoughts don’t wander but not enough to drain me so I don’t literally wander from this tall grey apartment block in down town Seattle and do something incredibly stupid.
My twenty second cigarette of Tuesday the 22nd of January at 10:45am fell to the floor and began to burn a hole in the floorboards. So I lit another. It happened again and then I decided get down on my hands and knees and peer under the crack between the floor and the bottom of the door. This was much more inconspicuous than the letter box and allows fewer adventures than the peep hole so it would do me fine. Tattered pair of white converse, the soles caked in mud, were tapping impatiently against the navy carpet in the hallway. I stared for 7 breaths. Then 7 more because I knew who it was. I stared at the dusty door handle. I reached out for it. And then backed away from the door. I didn’t like to break routine. The door shook. They were going to try and force their way in. Or rather they were about to succeed forcing their way in. My cheap door would soon buckle. I was right. The door flung open. I lit another cigarette and lay down on the sofa. I closed my eyes. The burning roll of tobacco was prised away from me. I ignored it. Maybe if I ignored it for long enough it would go away. A small delicate hand pulled at my arm and I was pulled from the sofa onto the floor. Headfirst into the cheap wooden floor boards.
Dakota smiled and then she opened her mouth to speak but I scowled and fumbled for another cigarette. She looked around. I think she understood. But I wasn’t sure; I let the smoke cloud everything over. But then it started to rain. The loud clashes of water against the window snapped me back from my trance. I was still on the floor in a heap and Dakota was stood around two meters away from me staring. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. She began to speak again. I’m not really sure what exactly she was saying. I think she was scolding me. I don’t know what on earth four. I did her a favour. I did what she asked. I didn’t understand. Why was she angry? She was still talking but I was watching her not processing the language at all. I think she knew that though. She moved forward. I recoiled. She advanced still and kneeled down beside me.
On the 22nd of January at around 11:45am I collapsed into my best friend’s arms. I collapsed because apparently I diet of Marlboro gold smoke doesn’t keep your heart pumping blood around your body. My bad.
It’s January 25th and I’m strapped into the back of a silver hatch back. Dakota is driving. We’ve been on the road of three days and I’ve yet to ask where the hell we’re going. I try to shift my weight to see out of the window but I fail frailly back into my seat. The interior of the hatch back sways. I fumble for another cigarette but they’re missing. The edges of my vision blur and fade into black.
The car jerks. The car stops. We’re in a pretty grim excuse for a cark park which is across from a fast food restaurant. I’m instructed to stay put; as if I could leave if I wanted too. Half-conscious, I read the labels on the seatbelts. The polyester is in ‘001 pitch black’ and was made in China. The company who sold the seat belts are based in Texas and then there’s some small print about there no refund policy. Dakota returns with two coffees in one hand and two bagels in the other. I grimace at the thought of food. She opens the car door and climbs into the back seat. Then places one of the bagels on my lap and nods. I continue with the seatbelt label. She puts her hand on my head. It’s warm; she looks concerned. So I take a bite from the bagel and she takes a sip of her coffee. We sit there in silence till we’re both finished, when she begins talking again. I can process it this time. Maybe the food was a good idea after all. I think she notices because she starts smiling. She wraps her around me and I close my eyes tight. She smells like coffee and cigarettes. But she doesn’t smoke. It feels kind of strange. She starts to let go but I don’t. She pulls away sharply; she probably thinks I passed out again but I didn’t. Since I decided to not reject my breakfast she decides to let me have the privilege of sitting in the front seat. And if I don’t black out within the next twenty four hours I get to pick a c.d to play of my choice.
It’s 11:50am and we’re on the highway. I still haven’t asked about our destination. I observe her as she drives, the way her expression tenses when we just miss the green light and the way her fingers tap the steering wheel to an imaginary rhythm. Her blue denim tattered shorts stick to her lean thighs because neither of us have showered for three days but they still look flattering. I’ve been two days without cigarettes. It’s the second day and I don’t mind because I’ve found something else now. I have a routine. I have Dakota. I have to have Dakota or my brain sways and I think of other things. I don’t even think I have the want to think of other things. I don’t want to think of other things. For now this more than enough. She is more than enough.
Four days traveling, 4.20pm. We reach a motel. We haven’t booked a room but Dakota hands over five dollars for each of us so we can use one of the room’s showers. The man at the desk looks her up and down and I walk towards the door to go find our hotel room. Dakota catches me up but doesn’t ask anything. I don’t think she knows this time. The rooms are small and bland: one double bed, one lamp, one radio, one onsite bathroom with a shower cubicle, rusty sink and a toilet. I sit on the bed as Dakota flings her worn denim to the floor and heads towards the shower. As I wait I lift up the cream flower patterned bed covers and read the label. 70% cotton, I wonder what the other 30% is made up of. Dakota is taking her time in the shower. I guess you would if you didn’t know where you’re next going to be. I read the tag on the lamp; it was 10 watts. The shade was PVC and I read the bath towel labels. They were made in India this time. I realise that I have the bath towels on the bed as opposed to in the bathroom. My thoughts drift to Dakota then to Dakota in the shower. I shut my eyes, bite my lip and then the bathroom opens. A dripping wet, petite, bleach blonde and sparkling clean Dakota paces towards me and looks at me. I look at the floor. She prises the towel from me. Then she points to the bathroom. I stutter an apology. I’m not sure what for. A still naked Dakota hugs me drenching my clothes. It doesn’t matter—they’re dirty. She’s hugging me because it’s the first time I’ve spoken in almost five days. I’m hugging her back because I want skin on skin contact. I don’t quite understand but I stumble towards the bathroom. The loud splurges of luke warm water don’t seem to be distracting me. I can think clearly again because I have no cigarettes and no Dakota for at least the next ten minutes. I quickly wash. She has left her shirt on the floor. She has another in the next room so that causes no real issues but I pick it up my now black from the shower hair drips onto it and I cradle it. I’m starting to wonder what is wrong with me but I fear it’s already too late. The problem has already happened. I’m already addicted.