Smoke in the Eye (Chapter 1)

The first day I smoked again, I’d just run nine kilometres. That is, four months of running a little every day, squeezing in first fifteen, then twenty minutes. It started with two and a half, then three kilometres. One day, I found myself dismissing my chest splitting open and finished up with five.

Oh, I was down for a week after that.

A month of seven. I got more and more obsessed with it, during the winter especially. Where I live, it gets about as cold as spring shifting into summer elsewhere, so within a week after December began, I jumped from eight to nine.

Three days later today, I was still running nine, but it was good. Hell, it felt great. The concrete sent searing shots of pain up from my toes, but I ignored it.  I was going to work my way up to ten and become a lean, mean running machine.

I stretched a little and began walking home, but stopped short when I saw that white patch. Ignore it, I told myself. Move on, just like I’d whispered into my pillow last night. Even after all the yelling had stopped.

Like hell. Never liked myself much, so the day I listened to what I told myself to do wasn’t going to be this one, where I crossed the road and eyed the dog on its side – teeth bared and legs sticking out. It could have been sleeping, but flies love a party on a dead body. There’s always a lovely smell.

Bile rose in my throat and I shifted away. Movement on my peripheral vision; I jumped, turning around. A man with a handkerchief tied around his head had politely waited for me to leave, before grasping the corpse by its stiff legs and hauling in the opposite direction. I watched him striding away, He carried it like a sack of gold.

Shit. I swallowed down the acid. The next thing I knew, I was standing under the corner shop’s crude tin awning, smoke billowing in clean white puffs out of my nostrils. My heart buzzed, but my head was oddly blank.

Just like four months ago.

*

The crackle of my cigarette rang clear in the cold, but back then, the scene was heavy with something about to move places. It was July. Muggy bloody day, my cigarette falling limply from my fingers. The taste was bitter, the stick soggy. It was a breath of fresh air compared to the viscous oxygen everyone else was inhaling.

Later, chewing some gum I’d swiped off a friend, I came home to Mum and Dad already packed. ‘You have an hour,’ they said. No questions were answered, no tears wiped, no protests heard. I knew it was pointless to even try. It took me only three trips with all my junk, and then I was watching my old home disappear around the corner, a goodbye winking off its red roof in form of an early evening sunbeam. 

What are you supposed to say anyway when your life changes brazenly in front of your eyes, like a rebellious schoolkid screwing up for fun while the principal watches, and knowing he can’t do shit? The principal feels a chill press down his brow as sweat, because this is what he was trained to prevent: losing control.

I didn’t say anything when we came to our new home. All I knew was that it didn’t suck, there were a lot less trees and more people my age than where I’d previously lived. I had Skype, I could still go to the same college when term started. Things hadn’t changed except for where my new room faced.

A month later, when the internet still refused to work and my parents still refused to talk, I quit smoking and began to run.

*

All right, this is just the once. Calm down, I told myself, edging into the kitchen. I’d bathed and changed. Damn I loved running. It was so great, it was so worth the bullshit every other hour of my day.

The tang of the first cigarette I’d smoked in months lingered in my throat however, and as I approached the counter, I could feel myself shrinking in self-loathing.

Calm. Be in a Zen place. It was just this once. Stick to your goals. Be your own leader! I’d read this off a magazine in the dentist’s office, and I couldn’t believe I was repeating those sugary, green apple-colour-of-health words to myself. But back then, I wouldn’t have believed I could run nine kilometres either.

Mum and Dad looked up, smiled, and I grinned back. Okay, the sugar was working. The day was light gold, it was lovely and pleasant and I’d run like a queen and my parents were happy and eating all my favourite things for breakfast. Running was The Secret for me. Life looked really good right now.

‘Hey,’ Mum said, handing me a plate of scrambled eggs. I slapped Dad a high five and began wolfing them down. ‘Why aren’t you wearing earrings? Those holes will close, and you know how painful it can be to pierce them again!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t roll your eyes at me!’ she said. I shrugged, and looked for the paper. If I was lucky, today would list the show timings of Jake Gyllenhaal’s latest film. I’d been looking forward to it for months.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’ A hand slapped on the table, and I looked up in surprise. She’s not letting this go? I told her so. The ridge above my mother’s eyebrow was distinct, and I knew I was in for it.

‘When are you going to start dressing like a girl? For heaven’s sake, K-, you’re old enough to know what people will say! You look like a ten-year old boy in those shorts! Can’t you be a little more feminine?’

‘Mum, seriously? You might as well tell Dad to stop with his pink vest!’

Dad – ‘Don’t drag me into this.’

Mum – ‘Oh yes, we wouldn’t dream of it! After all, we ought to do what you want, and then you can conveniently sit back and watch us deal with the consequences!’

Dad – ‘I’m warning you. Don’t start. Don’t make me get up and leave.’

Mum – ‘Why don’t you Isn’t that what you want?’

How did this happen? How did one regular argument in any household become so ugly between the wrong participants? Both my parents stood, hackles raised, ready to lunge if one of them so much as made a step forward. I could feel the ugliness creep its way down my throat, the pungent taste bringing back all the nights so far, all the days of that first month we moved. I preferred the cigarette.

‘I’m going to my room.’

‘Why? Finish your breakfast.’

‘I’m done, Mum. I have work to do.’

‘So early? Why don’t you ever sit and talk to us?’

Because you’re crazy. ‘Later. I promise.’

Mum wouldn’t remember anyway. I had other promises to keep her company.

Besides, anything I said was always overshadowed by whatever was hanging in the air between my parents. It was getting heavier every day, and I didn’t want to be around for its spilling over.

Or did I? I hoped the spill would be full of answers, at least.

*