Cigarette Ash and Eyeliner

A spark ignites the gas that rushes from the valve. A tall blue
flame flickers from the metal mouth.
A type of fizzing, sort of hissing sound rushes to your ears.
Breathe in, deeply. Make it seem as if you've been doing this all your
life.
Doing what exactly? Watch the others closely as your chest begins to
burn and your throat screams... niggling dangerously. Whatever you do,
don't choke!
For God's sake! You haven't even inhaled yet! Stop being stupid, you
won't choke. At least you hope you won't. The others drag on their fags
casually, waving them about as they talk. As usual, they're leaving you
out of the conversation. Everything seems rather large and intimidating
for some reason.
Suddenly, your chest explodes and your throat feels raw as you hack and
cough.
Looking through red, teary-eyed vision, you see the rest halt their
converstaion and look directly at you. Through the rushing in your
ears, you hear a sman break out from the boy standing next to you,
and a roar of laughter from the group of girls straight across from
you.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
In a flurry of embarrassment and complete humiliation, you turn and
flee, still with a cough hiding out in the back of your throat.
Why? Why? Why?
Your face is burning almost as much as your chest. Why couldn't you
have waited until another night? Or at least have done it with someone
who wouldn't have laughed, a friend. But wait a minute, you seem to
forget this often, you have no friends. You left them behind.
These people are supposed to be your friends now. But, what are the
chances?
Slamming the door, you throw down the seat and perch on the toilet. It
smells too terribley. Public toilets are for smoking in when it's
forbidden and for making out in when you're not allowed to do that
either, you're not really supposed to use them.
Pulling your feet up onto the seat with you, the tears begin to fall,
running unflattering-ly down your cheeks and dripping off your chin
into your lap. You can feel all that mascara and eyeliner that you put
on caking on your cheeks, making your skin feel tight as it blends with
the foundation that made you feel so grown-up. Snuffling the tears that
drip down your nose, you try not to break down completely.
Why give them the satisfaction of making you cry? They already know
you're a loser. If you go out there with red eyes and snot running out
your nose, they're just going to laugh harder.
Forget about it. It'll all blow over soon enough. By the end of the
evening, they'll have forgotten about it too and everything will be
fine. You've got the whole weekend still to make up an excuse and you
probably won't need it anyway because the others are just going to
dismiss this like they do everything else about you.
Oh, what are the chances?
You'll be a laughing stock at school on Monday "The Clown Who Tried to
Smoke", "The Loser That Wanted to be Cool" and who knows what
else.
Being popular sucks, and you're not even half way there yet. Well, you
may have been, but now you can just start climbing the social ladder at
the bottom again...
You silently vow that you're never going to smoke again. Ever. No
matter what, who cares what anyone thinks? Strong willed people are
admired by all sorts, and if none of those sorts happen to be popular
or beautiful, so what?

That's what I think of now as I puff on a Camel Filter, gazing back on
when I had my first smoke all those years ago it seems.
Twirling the white stick of tabacco in my fingers, I stare at the
glowing tip. A cough niggles gently at the back of my throat, reminding
my body that what I'm doing is going to kill me. Maybe not now, maybe
not tomorrow, but somewhere in that future that seems so far away, I'm
going to die, and these elegant looking objects are going to be the
cause of it.
Argh, I'll quit tomorrow, what's one more day?