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The smoke curls up from between my trembling fingers, dancing in the breeze of the whining AC, taunting me to go ahead and inhale, deep and slow, lifting the cigarette to my lips. It is a stale, damp, familiar taste, like fresh cut grass in the morning and something sad, with an aftertaste like death. I cough, the smoke an only too familiar black dragon trying to claw its way out of me. I hold on to that feeling of pain and panic, use it to remind myself why not to finish this pack; it has always been my reason to stop, but I return. My lighter clicks open, popping merrily as it burst out in flame, and I can't help but snuff out this butt and reach for the next, knowing that I should stop but not yet allowing myself to make that choice. And why? It's so much easier to sit here, the smoke filling the void around me, inside me, so I can feel full, complete, and maybe, for once, somewhat happy. This is why I finish every last cigarette in the pack, drawing out every cancer-filled breath. I am tempted to tear through the house to find where I stashed another secret pack, but I tell myself to wait, to save them for another day when I can allow myself to truly savor them. Besides, my world is coming home to me soon, and I have to attempt to hide the evidence of my sins.