Nicotine

It was late. Kian knew it was. Far too late for them to be out walking the streets, far too late to be wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants with little pink cats all over them, far too late to be shaking and sobbing their way through a pack of cigarettes because their past is haunting them.

It’s far too late to be awake, most of the city is asleep and it’s really only the night-shifters, junkies and prostitutes that are still awake, but there Kian is, down to three sticks left in a small cardboard carton and a red bic lighter tucked under the elastic of their pants.

They’re maybe ten blocks away from their apartment, halfway across the city from where they’re sure James is sleeping, impossibly far but all too close at the same time.

They’d kill to have him in their arms again, and they laugh bitterly at the thought as they light another cigarette and slot it between their lips. Their inhale shudders in their lungs and they cough out a mouthful of smoke and keep coughing until they can’t breathe, until they’re leaning against the side of a building, lit cigarette held between their fingers as they gasp and heave, their stomach twisting and trying to bring up the guilt that racks them, that keeps them up at night.

They sink to their knees in the dirty alley, back pressed to the wall they’d been leaning against and in the back of their mind they know they’ll have to burn their clothes. All the washing powder in the world wouldn’t be able to get rid of the city filth.

At the same time they wonder if they shouldn’t keep them. Then their wardrobe would match their grimy insides.

They cough out a laugh and take a drag from their still-burning cigarette, more than half of it turned to ash by now.

They look at their bare feet, stretched out and filthy in front of them and think about going back to the shelter, walking over there, sneaking in and sliding into James’ bed, curling up behind him like they used to, like nothing happened.

But they know they could never do that, so they stub out their cigarette and light another, haul themselves off the ground and start trudging their way back home.

They walk through piles of trash, past passed out or od’ed bodies, not caring who looks at them or why.

They stop at the convenience store they bought their cigarettes at and buy another pack. The cashier raises an eyebrow but says nothing when they pull the cash out of their waistband and flash the handle of the hunting knife stashed there.

They smoke another three in the last four blocks to their apartment, another one on the way up their stairs as they leave dirt and grime and god knows what in their footprints.

They’ve never smoked before and they know it’s not healthy, but they can’t bring themselves to care as they stand under the too-hot water in their shower and watch the dirt wash down the drain, kind of hoping they could follow it down.

There’s a lump in their throat as they climb out and go to get dressed, their hand catching a shirt that definitely isn’t theirs and pulling it over their head before they notice. There’s a prickling behind their eyes and they go stand on their balcony and go through two cigarettes before they start sobbing and coughing and go to bed instead.

So they climb into bed as the sun is rising and try not to think about the way it feels too big and empty, the way their chest feels because their heart belongs to a boy halfway across the city who wants nothing to do with them.

They fall asleep with an ache in their chest, with the hollowness of guilt in their stomach, with blood on their hands that can’t be washed off, and with the knowledge that they ruined the only good thing they had.