Cigars
[Fiction - Copyright Jemimah Adrielle dela Rosa. 09-02-2010 - This is a snippet of a story, but can count as a whole. Ty.]
A minute past one and she knew she was waiting for nothing.
As the smoke traveled down her throat, she wondered how long it will take before it got to her heart. He'd be here, she told herself. He'd be here, she lied to herself. The world was but a distant background, and through white air lingering just in front of her face, she could see the white lies playing like being trapped in a dream.
The ash fell like soft talc powder, falling on the ground, breaking into smaller pieces than imaginable. You couldn't have put it back together, no, no you couldn't possibly put it back together to make another white soft stick. There were cigarette ends on the wood-colored floor, and the aroma crawled on her rose-washed walls.
She looked at her phone - there was nothing there- no text message waiting, not even a missed call. It was as empty as the promises made on nights when emotions rise above the brain. It was as devoid as reactions expected when all you could feel was pain and he couldn't feel any remorse. It was as devoid as the white gown she was wearing because she took out all of the diamond beads sewn.
She began to dial his number - but if if I did, what's the point? Would he even answer? She remembered the times when he couldn't last an hour without checking up on her- yes, the irony of what time can do to love and life. She hung up.
But if time was the culprit, why does she feel the same? Why does the fire burn through her lungs screaming, begging, praying for his love? How is it that time is only in favor pain, while the world only watches as each heart breaks?
She lit up another cigarette and began to choke on her second puff. How long has she been doing this? An hour? Three hours? One whole night? She couldn't recall how many sticks have touched her now dry lips. For someone who just started smoking, it must have been a feat to smoke this much.
What has plunged them into this mess hole is something she has yet to figure out. She has done all she could, loved without regrets, embraced without hesitation.
"I'm not ready," he told her a day before.
She inhaled from the stick and felt the menthol-flavored air run down her throat, and she exhaled it nonchalanty as the smoke began to dim her sight just as her tears do.
When the tears on her eyes finally held back - she stared at the white soft stick wasting away. She felt it between her fingers- that angelic white wrapper embracing brown poison inside, topped off with soft cotton-like filter that take away the years of your life.
A minute past one and she knew she was waiting for nothing.
As the smoke traveled down her throat, she wondered how long it will take before it got to her heart. He'd be here, she told herself. He'd be here, she lied to herself. The world was but a distant background, and through white air lingering just in front of her face, she could see the white lies playing like being trapped in a dream.
The ash fell like soft talc powder, falling on the ground, breaking into smaller pieces than imaginable. You couldn't have put it back together, no, no you couldn't possibly put it back together to make another white soft stick. There were cigarette ends on the wood-colored floor, and the aroma crawled on her rose-washed walls.
She looked at her phone - there was nothing there- no text message waiting, not even a missed call. It was as empty as the promises made on nights when emotions rise above the brain. It was as devoid as reactions expected when all you could feel was pain and he couldn't feel any remorse. It was as devoid as the white gown she was wearing because she took out all of the diamond beads sewn.
She began to dial his number - but if if I did, what's the point? Would he even answer? She remembered the times when he couldn't last an hour without checking up on her- yes, the irony of what time can do to love and life. She hung up.
But if time was the culprit, why does she feel the same? Why does the fire burn through her lungs screaming, begging, praying for his love? How is it that time is only in favor pain, while the world only watches as each heart breaks?
She lit up another cigarette and began to choke on her second puff. How long has she been doing this? An hour? Three hours? One whole night? She couldn't recall how many sticks have touched her now dry lips. For someone who just started smoking, it must have been a feat to smoke this much.
What has plunged them into this mess hole is something she has yet to figure out. She has done all she could, loved without regrets, embraced without hesitation.
"I'm not ready," he told her a day before.
She inhaled from the stick and felt the menthol-flavored air run down her throat, and she exhaled it nonchalanty as the smoke began to dim her sight just as her tears do.
When the tears on her eyes finally held back - she stared at the white soft stick wasting away. She felt it between her fingers- that angelic white wrapper embracing brown poison inside, topped off with soft cotton-like filter that take away the years of your life.
posted by saichuu @ 12:13 PM
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