Cigarette Smoke

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


As I take another long draw from my cigarette, my face is illuminated momentarily by the reddish hue of the minute fires burning mere inches from my lips. Nobody notices, however. People come and go, cars zip by, lights flash, people talk, it's the rhythm of the City's nightlife and I am simply another Insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You, however, are so much more.

The spent butt falls from my fingers to the ground where a heavy boot mashes it into the pavement. For a moment, I picture another's face beneath my foot instead of the extinguished ashes of my nicotine-stick. That would be nice.

I glance back up at you and watch you smile. It was your smile that first caught my eye two years ago. I can scarcely believe it has already been two years. I have sometimes paused to consider whether you have become an obsession, but when it comes down to it, there is little difference between one Loved and one Obsessed over. Where the heart is concerned, the two are interchangeable. At least, that is the way I justify these things to myself.

Your smile makes my heart flutter every time I see it. A hand reaches up and caresses your cheek; I see that look in your eyes that makes my knees tremble. Only the hand caressing your cheek is not my own. And the look you give is not meant for me but for the man sitting across from you. I watch as you give him your beautiful smile, though I know it is a farce. I have seen the way he has treated you these past two years and have waited patiently for that moment when you will say, "Enough is enough," and walk away, but that day never comes. You remain at his side, you laugh at his stupid jokes, and tolerate his abuse with barely a bat of your gorgeous eyes.

But I know the truth. I have seen you crying into your pillow, screaming for a different life. I have watched you on your knees, praying to a deaf god to take you Home, but every prayer goes unanswered. If only I could tell you that your prayers are, in fact, heard. There is one who listens, one, at least, who truly cares. But deep down, I know it will not do you any good. You will still remain with him. You will continue to laugh at his moronic jokes and take his abuse without complaint unless something forces you to leave his side - or forces him to leave you.

I reach for my pack, only to find it empty. Instead I sit and toy with my lighter, fascinated with the way the sparks ignite the butane and create flame in an instant. I have the power to control flames at my fingertips with but a flick of my thumb. Modern marvels never cease to amaze me. I sometimes wonder if I was truly born in a different era, but was somehow transported here to unfamiliar surroundings. Cars, lights, computers, and all the other bells and whistles of modern times seem new to me, different, amazing.

But not as amazing as you.

My gaze returns to your table to find you gone. Immediately, I scan about the area and catch a brief glimpse of you disappearing into the restrooms. I'd swear there was the glimmer of a tear upon your cheek. My gaze returns to your man and I do all I can to quell the beast within. How difficult would it be, I wonder silently, to walk over and rip his throat out? He would deserve it, I know. For every time he was found in the arms or bed of another, for every time he laid a hand on you, for every instance he screamed and yelled and called you 'bitch," he would deserve it.

But who am I? I am a lowly nobody with an hourly-wage job, a crap car, and I'm a far cry from the greatest-looking guy around. All I have is what I feel for you, but that, I know for certain, is an unbreakable bond forged of stuff more valuable than any car that gives me more in a moment than the best job would provide me in a lifetime.

I see you return to your table with a fake smile and I do not miss the fact your eyes are red and puffy, though your man does. He barely even looks up as you take your seat. And so the night progresses.

At the end of the night, I see you laughing again as you walk towards his fancy car and climb into the passenger seat. I would have opened the door for you, my Goddess. Not him, however. He slides into his seat with hardly a thought to you and revs up the engine, backing the car out of the parking space before you even have your door closed. Your smile disappears as he laughs and hits the gas. And away you go to 4281 Evergreen Terrace Drive.

Do not worry, my love, I will stop by soon. I will sleep by your window and care that no one disturbs your rest, as I have done for some time, now. But first, I need a new pack of cigarettes.

And a gun.

                   

I still recall the day I met you as though it were yesterday...

I was standing outside of the Onyx, smoking a cigarette and feeling the deep thrumming beat of the music streaming through the club's large doors. Cigarette smoke filled the air between us as you stepped outside with a cigarette of your own, your eyes puffy and red, as they would be many times over the next two years. Your man had just been caught flirting rather physically with another woman while you were in the ladies' room, but I wouldn't know this until much later in the evening.

For now, all I saw was a fallen angel, complete with running mascara, a beauty dressed in the dark raiment of a mourning queen, or perhaps a Goddess of Night. You glanced over at me and spoke, the only time you have directed your sweet voice at me in over two years.

"Do you have a light?" the angel asked of me. I gladly obliged. I watched as your features were illuminated in the soft, flickering orange glow of the tiny flame, then suddenly plunged back into shadow. You held my gaze for an infinite moment, and, in that eternal second, I fell madly in love.

"Hey, hurry up with the box, will you? There are four more in the back and we're supposed to be clocking out in half an hour!"

I snap out of my reminiscing to find myself back at work. I stock the shelves at a local Wal-Mart and get paid a generous $7.52 per hour for all my troubles. That amounts to just enough to keep up on the maintenance costs on my piece of shit car, with a few dollars left over for gas, food, and utilities. My roomie is kind enough to pay the rent in full, so long as I slip him a bit of Wal-Mart merchandise every now and then. It's a good arrangement, so long as I can keep the cameras off my five-finger discounts near the end of the month when the rent's due.

"I'll get to it, lay off asshole!" I return with a laugh. Bill grins from ear to ear as he is fond of doing anytime I call him an asshole. The man is one of the few nice people I have ever met, which makes the petty insult ironic and funny at the same time. We both know it is all done in good fun and neither of us ever takes offense at the jabs we constantly make at one another. We are simply a couple of long-time work chums making the best of a dead-end job.

"Do you work here?" a pretty doll-faced woman in her mid-twenties asks me. I glance down at the tag on my shirt that clearly indicates I am a Wal-Mart employee, but keep any sarcastic retorts to myself.

"Yes, ma'am, I do. Can I help you with something?" I respond without giving her a second look.

My gaze belongs to another.

"Yes, I was wondering if you knew where I could find these. This particular one isn't my size," she speaks with an odd lilt to her voice. I notice Bill's brows rise in mild surprise, then a familiar grin spreads across his face as my eyes turn down to the merchandise in the lovely lady's hands. She holds out a white thong with a frilly pink lace around the edges and a matching bra. With a quick glance at her, it is obvious the bra is a couple sizes too small for the hourglass-figured woman before me.

Not more than fifteen feet away is a female employee, Nadia, wearing a blue Wal-Mart vest, obviously a better person to ask such a question, yet here the woman stands asking me. If I didn't know any better, I would say she is making an attempt to flirt.




"Nadia over there would be more than happy to help." I point the woman to Nadia and immediately turn away to find an astonished Bill staring back at me.

"Dude, she was asking you for help with her panties... That's not something you just brush off like that!" he says as the woman walks away.

I shrug in response and return my full attention to the box I was tasked to unload. "You know I'm not interested, Bill."

"Are you talking about that engaged bi... uhh, woman?" Bill quickly corrects himself after I shoot him my death-gaze. Kidding or not, Bill knows well the boundaries of our friendship. Nobody speaks badly of you while I am within earshot. Jeff, an ex-employee of this particular store learned that the hard way.

"Come on, man. It has been like three years already and she's still with that asshole! You need to move on. That woman," he says as he motions to the disappearing thong-lady, "was definitely into you!"

I wave his ridiculous comments aside and continue to work. "She's not my type. And it has been two years, three months and... mmm... fifteen days. The fact she's not married yet says plenty."

Bill shakes his head in amazement at my recollection of the precise day I met you, believing I have a good memory with all dates, but I know better. The only days worth remembering are those somehow linked to you. Your smile comes vividly to mind and I smile in return.

Bill and I finish our work on time, as usual, and we head out for a quick beer before he has to go home to the wife and kids. I, on the other hand, return to someone far more important.

Even as I walk up the street toward your house, I see you through the kitchen window, fixing dinner for that dirtbag of a fiancee that has somehow managed to keep a hold over you. I reach behind me to brush a hand against the bulge tucked away in my pants. I feel more secure as I approach, knowing that at any moment I can blast a hole through that ape of yours.

But he is not yet home.

Soon enough, my Love, you will be free of him. Even as you undoubtedly mourn his passing, your Knight in White will appear out of nowhere to dry your tears and bring a long-forgotten smile to your face once more. We will find one another and I will at last have the opportunity to return that gaze you shared long ago that so captured my soul.

You will be mine, just as I have already been yours...

Someday.

Someday soon.

                   

I wait outside by the neighbor's bushes, my trusty nicotine-stick hanging loosely from my lips. I exhale slowly and watch, entranced, as the smoke dances beautifully in mid-air. Wisps of gray swirl and caress the light breeze, dissipating moments later into the air above. I shift my gaze to bring your home into focus, then realize that you are no longer in the kitchen. With the poultry in the oven, you have disappeared into the bedroom near the rear of the house. I flick my cigarette toward the sidewalk and follow the bushes to your bedroom window.

Your curtains block most of my view as I approach, but a narrow slit allows me to see your entire room when I am right next to the window. I catch some movement beyond the thick curtains and peer within. I watch, in a daze, as your top slides languidly from your arms and your left foot kicks a shoe off to land near its twin. My gaze follows the gentle curve of your back, taking in the silky smoothness of your flesh. As your pants slide to your ankles and you step out of them, your gorgeous figure chokes the breath out of me. My fingers turn white against the brick sill as I fight to restrain myself.

Your body curves inward at the waist, only to flare wide at the hips. Every inch of your body is perfectly proportioned, filled in where a woman ought to be, unlike those skeletal "beauties" that adorn the covers of magazines and walk runways in ridiculous garb. Your flawless legs are soft and baby-smooth, tapering to small, feminine feet that cause my knees to tremble. I watch in fascination as you slide pink lacey panties to your ankles and head for the bathroom, discarding your bra behind you. Even as the door closes, the image of your unclothed figure from behind is burned permanently into my mind. Your clothes make an enticing trail I somehow summon the courage to follow.

I try the back door and enter, as I have done a number of times over the two years I have known you. I hear the shower running the moment I enter your bedroom. The scent of your perfume hangs in the air, making me dizzy and lightheaded as I glance about the room. A smile spreads across my face as I pull a dresser drawer open. I take a souvenir, slipping it away into a pocket before closing the drawer and rummaging quietly through your jewelry. I lift one piece in particular, fondly remembering the way you look in it.

I like this necklace. It accents your smile and sparkles everytime your eyes do. I don't take it, though. I would rather see it on you.

I pull open a few other drawers, annoyed to find his clothes in some of them. I am about to turn away when I notice a small package tucked into the side of one drawer, half-covered by socks. I pull it out and smile. Of course. Today is the nineteenth, the day he forgot last year. It would stand to reason the idiot would have bought something for you this time around. I grin maliciously as I tuck the small package into a coat pocket and ease the drawer shut.

I am about to leave, when I feel a sudden Need. I get those every now and then. It's like a whisper directly into the soul. It is one of those urges that are impossible to resist, no matter what you try to do. Before I realize it, I'm standing against the bathroom door, slowly easing it open. A light steam cloud escapes and I watch your shadow against the curtains as you hum a soft tune. I walk in and listen to your music, imagining myself holding you as you hum in my arms. I hear the water turn off and that's my cue to leave. I'm not here to frighten you, my Love, I only wanted to be near you for a few moments...

I quietly step out and gently ease the door shut behind me. Moments later, I'm sitting among the neighbor's bushes - my usual hiding place - with both hands in my coat pockets. In one hand, I hold the small, wrapped package. In the other, I hold my souvenir. I pull the package out first and open it, finding a slender box with a gorgeous necklace within. A ruby heart pendant lays upon a fine silver chain.

She prefers emeralds, you idiot. They remind her of her grandmother's eyes. I shake my head in disgust at his inability to pay you any attention and close the box, stuffing it and the wrapping back into my coat pocket. I reach into the other pocket, the one with the souvenir and smile.

The softness of your blue lace panties feels nice against my fingertips and smell even nicer. There's a distinct baby powder scent to them, with a slight feminine underscent.

I pull a cigarette free of its box and reach for my lighter.

                   

"Hey man, do you have a lighter?"

I glance up at the kid and reach into my coat pocket. This guy cannot be older than sixteen, but I am not his mother. I light up his cigarette as I take a long, slow draw from my own. He nods his thanks and we settle against the outer wall of the club. I watch as the cigarette smoke floats up in thin, wispy clouds with every exhale and recall fondly the night before.

Everything had gone as planned. It was your birthday, yet you had dressed up and cooked for him instead. Your man arrived home later than expected, causing a brief argument. Being the more level-headed one of the two, you brushed your anger aside and sat with him for a lovely candlelit dinner. It became painstakingly clear to you, however, that he had again forgotten your birthday when you realized he had not even bothered to buy you a present, despite his claims to the contrary. He always makes excuses, you told him. Why couldn't he simply admit it when he made a mistake? It was great seeing the look on his face even as I held his gift for you in my pocket.

It hurt me to see you cry yourself to sleep, but the pain you felt will cleanse you of the faux feelings you believe you have for him. Last night, as I watched you tremble and sob softly into your pillow, I had an epiphany. I found a way to rid you of that festering wound of several years that attempts to pass himself off as a man without putting our future together at risk. I was sorely tempted to follow him last night, after he departed in anger, leaving you crying alone. I wanted to pull the trigger and rid the world of that asshole once and for all, but I would risk losing you forever if I was caught. A better idea came to mind.

The cigarette leaves a streak of ash against the wall where I put it out and I flick the butt into the parking lot before heading back into the club. I hate coming here, but there is something in this place that I need.

My gaze scans the crowd as best it can in the strobes and fog until I find her again. I have had my eyes on her the entire night and she has caught me watching her more than once. She glances about and catches my eye, flashing me a quick smile, a clear signal. I make my way toward her, introduce myself using a false name, and then buy her a few drinks. By the end of the night, we agree to return to her place.

Don't worry, Love, I belong only to you.

Things progress quickly once we are in her apartment. Most of our clothes come off and it is evident she doesn't want this to stop. We kiss, hands roam over one another's bodies, passions stir, and we laugh intermittently between kisses. It's all a ruse. She's playful and cute, but not quite my type -- but she doesn't know that. I described you to her at the club and she thought I was talking about her. It was easy getting her to this point and I will admit, a part of me feels sorry for what I am going to do to her, but whores get what they deserve.

She excuses herself to the restroom before we proceed to the bed and I quickly collect her panties the instant the door closes behind her. It is especially important that she had been wearing them for what I intend to do. I pull my clothes back on and hear her calling for me as I walk out the front door. I already have all I came here for.

The following day, I watch as you drive away to work. It's his day off and today I only work half a shift at Wal-Mart. I head to work, content that today will be the beginning of the end. I have waited long enough for you; it is time I take matters into my own hands.

After work, I head back to your place and make sure he's in the living room. The idiot is already on his fourth beer. He rests on the couch, playing a game on his X-Box and screaming out curses every time he loses.

I walk quietly through the backdoor and head for your bedroom. The bed is unmade, as is to be expected when you're not around. I pull the panties I took from the club-whore out of a pocket and slip them beneath the covers at the foot of the bed, then head for the bathroom. In my pocket, I have an unopened condom. I rip it open, slipping its contents back into my pocket and discard the wrapper in your bathroom trashcan. I am done for now. I leave without him ever knowing I was there.

Perfect. Now, I simply wait for you to come home.

                   

Lopsided, smoky O's puff in a line from my pursed lips for a foot or two from my face before dissipating completely. I breath the soothing smoke in and keep exhaling in short bursts, watching transfixed as the smoke rings flow from my lips. After taking another deep inhalation of my cigarette, I exhale very slowly, watching the swirling, stringy wisps of smoke twist and curl in the almost non-existant breeze. My thoughts fly as the smoke does, random and chaotic, yet in the end, they inevitably dissipate into the grander theme my life has taken over the last two years.

I have been unable to think of anything else since you first appeared to me through a haze of smoke at the entrance to a club two years ago. Colors are dull, food tasteless, when not in your presence. Looking at one of the many pictures I have taken of you spices up some of the blandness I have been forced to deal with in my day-to-day life, but it is a far cry from the awe you inspire in me when I watch you in person. Your very presence cause colors to bloom, the music of my heart to be heard, the very sky itself fills with tangible possibility.

As I sit behind the hedges mere feet away from your dining room window, I cannot seem to get my heart to slow down. Two years of waiting and watching have led to this moment, yet every second feels like an hour, every hour is an eternity. You wine and dine that undeserving bastard, clean up his mess and his dishes after him without a word of protest. You offer your love unconditionally yet the idiot squanders the moments he has with you, taking you for granted at every turn and abusing you with the tiniest inflection of his temperamental mood. He deserves what is coming to him. You deserve better.

I watch as you two sit on the couch for an evening of movie-watching. He flips through the channels while your fingers toy with his hair and your head settles onto his shoulder. The inattentive ape misses the obvious cues and settles on some stupid action flick, souring your affectionate mood in a matter of moments. I see the disdain clearly etched across your features, but rather than getting angry, your expression softens and you mold your body into his side to watch his movie of choice.

I turn away in disgust and reach for another cigarette.

The evening progresses much the same, with you repeatedly attempting to be affectionate and the moron paying little to no attention to you, particularly during the movie's obligatory sex scene. I can tell this bothers you as well, but you remain surprisingly soft and affectionate despite his apathetic mood towards you. Only once the credits scroll down the screen does he finally respond - with a groping hand and a sloppy kiss. Apparently, his attitude throughout the entire evening did not entirely eliminate your underlying desires. I feel my heart sink and my hands tremble as he pulls you into his lap, then stands up with you on him. He holds you against him as he kisses you and carries you into the bedroom.

My first instinct is to leave, as I have always done when you started to get intimate with the brute, but I force myself to stay. I sneak along the hedge and crawl beneath it to your bedroom window. The lights within are off, but sufficient light from your hallway streams into the bedroom for me to see you two tearing clothes off one another. This part, I cannot watch. I turn away just as his hands start to roam across your half-naked body and he presses you down onto the bed.

I close my eyes and feel my entire body tremble with barely-contained anger and envy as I hear your soft cries. Attempting to ignore your sweet voice making such sounds is impossible, so instead I imagine myself as the source of your pleasure. At first, I find my imagination inadequate for the task, since I can't help but picture the ape laying against you, but I manage to find a way to convince myself, for the moment, that it is actually me with you.

A hand slides within my pants and I bite back soft groans that would have otherwise coincided with your loudening cries. I hear the bed's headboard bang repeatedly against the opposite side of the wall I am leaning against and listen as your sweet cries turn into screams. I picture you beneath me, your expression twisted into one of sweet delight even as your screaming grows louder. In my imagination, your mouth hangs half-open and your eyes are wide with a gleam of raw pleasure evident within. Your body presses back in perfect rhythm and your screams peak in intensity just as our bodies do simultaneously.

The very real sensations wash over me as your screams fill the bedroom. In my light-headed daze, it takes me a few moments to realize your screams are not those of pleasure, but ones of outrage, denial, and, most of all, pain.

"You fucking asshole! You cheating man-whore piece of shit!" your angry screams echo in the room.

I dare a peak through the window and see you smacking at his confused face repeatedly before you reach to the floor beside the bed where a certain pair of panties had fallen and you toss them in his face.

"Those aren't mine, you jerk!" you say a little quieter, in absolute defeat. My heart breaks for the pain you are feeling, but I can't help but grin at the note of finality in your tone and at the dumbfounded expression on his face.

Strike one, shithead!

You go to the bathroom and slam the door behind you as he stutters through some sort of denial that you no doubt ignore. He tries the door and finds it locked, so instead he bangs on it repeatedly, to no effect. I hear you screaming and sobbing in the bathroom and he returns to the bed to examine the panties. His confusion is complete when he realizes they are neither your size nor your preferred brand of underwear. A loud, angry scream from the bathroom interrupts his thoughts and I hear you yell something about a condom.

Strike two, shithead!

                   

I like watching cigarette smoke. If I exhale very slowly, I can follow individual strands of smoky nothingness as they rise, blending and separating, transcending the pull of gravity only to dissipate into nonexistance within a span of a few moments. Then, they are gone forever. Each puff of smoke is unique, set apart from every other. There will never again be that precise smoky design in any other exhalation. So I watch and appreciate their uniqueness and try not to think of the corollaries between insignificant thready strands of smoke and my existence.

A person is born into existence and rises to be an individual, a unique strand of nothingness who lives solely for the sake of living. That is the purpose to life, after all, to exist. To be someone. To leave one's mark upon the world and try to make the best of the bullshit life hands everybody every day. Then, like that insignificant puff of smoke, we are gone forever, dissipating into the elements from which we came. Like the smoke, every person is unique. Once someone is gone, there will never be another like him or her again.

Sometimes, when I watch the smoke rising, I hope for something different. A quick stir of the wind, perhaps, to make some recognizable shape or design in the rising plume of smoke. Or perhaps the smoke could solidify in place to be seen and appreciated by everybody forevermore. Sometimes, I see my life as that plume of smoke. I know my life will rise through existence and dissipate into the void to be forgotten by all. I long to leave my mark, however, to draw the attention of at least one person and give them cause to remember me forever. I want to be that one tiny wisp of smoke that catches the attention of the smoker. I want to transcend my meager existence and become something important and loved enough to never be forgotten. Don't we all, on some level, want the same thing out of life?

I watch as the bathroom door swings open and you storm out, still naked and sweaty, but too furious to care. Your arms swing at him and you slap him repeatedly, screaming obscenities and accusations. Between angry curses and half-sobs, you mock his stupidity at having left a condom where you would find it. His initial reaction was confusion, horror. Now, the false accusations and continued slappings twist his face into a rage.

I watch, horrified, as the brute pushes you away, then punches you square in the jaw, knocking you hard against the wall only to slump to a heap on the floor. Somehow, you manage to remain conscious as he screams his repudiation and approaches you with a raised fist.

That's strike three you miserable fuck.

For an instant, time slows to a crawl. I feel numb pain as my fist smashes through your bedroom window. I hear my screams mix with his and yours, and am vaguely aware of blood trickling down my arm. My fist swings repeatedly, smashing away at the glass in rage until most of it is gone.

He turns just as I go in through the window. Somehow, the pistol I had tucked away in my pants has ended up in my bloody hand, but my hold on it is weak. The pistol grip is coated in blood. I try pulling the trigger, but my finger doesn't respond. He realizes what I have in my hand just as I switch the weapon to my left, undamaged, hand.

The brute lunges and I hear a crack of gunfire. The thought that it sounds nothing like it does in the movies crosses my mind for an instant before he crashes into me and drives me back against the floor.

Fuck, I missed.

I see his heavy fist approaching and brace myself. The impact stuns me, but I feel no pain yet. Somewhere, I hear repeated gunshots and holes appear in the wall beside us. The fact I am repeatedly pulling on the trigger is only brought to my awareness by the fact he starts to slam my hand against the floor to get me to release the gun.

The realization that losing the pistol might very well cost me my life comes second only to the realization that if I lose the gun, he will very likely return to beating you. I see him rise then fall against me with his knee.

I hear the crack of bone and a lightning-sharp streak of pain shoots across my shoulder and down my arm as he brings his full weight against my shoulder, popping my arm out of its socket. The gun flies out of my now-useless hand.

Another punch painfully snaps my head to one side.

I look up through one eye as the other is quickly swelling shut and see his fist come at me again.

I am sorry, my Love. I have failed you.

I feel his fist impact. Blood splatters out of my nose as I hear a loud crack and a cold, numbing pain instantly spreads across my face.

Darkness threatens to engulf me as I hear screams for him to stop.

His fist hits me again, but the screams continue.

It takes me centuries to realize you are the one screaming. I fall down a deep, dark pit and can barely make out the pinpoint of light at the other end of the tunnel. His weight against me shifts, then he rises off me and goes for you once more. A loud crack of gunfire is heard and he falls against me, laying very still.

Silence follows.

I feel the front of my shirt being soaked by the blood pouring out of his bare back. I look up at you as you approach very carefully, aiming the gun at both of us with trembling hands. The look of absolute fear on your face is the last thing I see before the darkness swallows me whole.

                   

I must admit, the last couple of months were something of a blur to me. The only moments that really stood out were those when you were in the courtroom with me. Under the circumstances, those bittersweet moments were the only times I was allowed to see you. You met my gaze almost every time, too. Oh the sweet agony! How ironic, that after two years of watching you from a distance you finally take notice of me when it has become near impossible for us to have any contact.

My arms have healed nicely, as has my face, though I suspect that will change in the weeks and years to come. I've heard all the stories and know what lay ahead for a thin, average nobody like me. Some might say I am an idiot for the choices I have made, but if those people were in my shoes, if they loved as I have loved, they would have done precisely the same.

Don't worry, my Love. I do not blame you for what has befallen me.

It was easy enough to convince the police that all that had happened was entirely my fault. I would never let them send you to prison for giving that son of a bitch what he deserved. I saw the look of shock on your face when I confirmed nearly every detail of your story: I had been watching you from the window, I broke in, I shot your boyfriend. The one thing I could not burden myself with was the beating you had sustained prior to my timely interruption. I could never lay a hand on you and, judging by how quickly you changed your story to match mine, I suspect you saw more in my eyes than words could have conveyed. You changed that one detail in your story, made your dead boyfriend out to be the cause of your injuries instead of me, and everything else fell into place like pieces of a puzzle.

Of course, the police saw holes in the story we gave them, but after they searched my rathole of an apartment and found two years' worth of pictures and notes about you, they decided to plug those holes up and not look back. I was suddenly turned into a sick, twisted stalker who had taken his obsession one step too far. The evidence against me was damning, the judge all fire and brimstone without an ounce of compassion in her stony black heart. With the pounding of her gavel, my fate was sealed.

With the slamming of my cage door, reality began to sink in. Prison life itself wasn't what terrified me. The idea of spending a week, a month, eight years without seeing you is far worse than any hell the brutes in this place could possibly put me through. I will have to live every day with those last images I have of you.

You testified against me. You told the judge and jury I killed your "beloved" and they ate up the lies like a curious dog laps up its own vomit. Every word you spoke against me stung. Every time you mentioned how good of a man he had been to you, every lie that damned me to this place was another nail straight through the heart. I saw the look in your eyes when they brought out the "evidence," all the pictures and notes I had taken of you over the last two years. The poems I would write, the way I would describe you, they made your eyes gleam even in the grim environs of the cold courtroom.

During those days, the brightest was the day they read my sentence. Not for what the judge had to say, of course, but for what you wore to court. They had read aloud some of my journal entries during the trial, including one in particular where I wrote about my favorite dress and necklace that you possessed. On that final day of the trial, I spotted you near the back of the courtroom wearing the same dress and necklace I had mentioned.

I have to believe that means something. I have to have hope in a place like this. I would like to believe that my life has had meaning. I want to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my actions have had a meaningful impact on the world, even if that world consists of the only person who has ever meant a thing to me. I want to believe that the look of surprise when I took full blame for your dead boyfriend and the fact you wore my favorite outfit and jewelry mean precisely what I want them to mean.

Then again, I may have misunderstood the look of surprise. It may have been one of gratitude, but only for not having to take the fall for the death of that asshole. Perhaps you did not hold any favor toward me for it. As for the outfit, maybe it was a final "fuck-you" to a man who had, unbeknownst to you, been stalking you from the day he spotted you at some random nightclub two years ago. I want to believe otherwise, but the doubts will always remain in the back of my mind until the day I leave this place. How can I know for sure?

I want to believe that my life, this particular plume of insignificant smoke, has solidified for all of eternity by the raw power of unconditional Love to be admired by the recipient of that Love. I will have to wait and see. For you, Love, I can wait. Otherwise, what is the point of living? My entire life would amount to little more than a bit of smoke, dissipated in the air and blown into nonexistance by the lightest of breezes. Gone. Forever. Just another short-lived, near-instantaneous puff of cigarette smoke.