One More Cigarette - and the Choise to Live

I sat up in bed with a jolt.

Wide awake, all senses reaching out into the darkness.

Nothing.

A chill ran down my spine.

The last thing I remembered was fleeing. He was after me. A knife—or was it a spade—raised high toward the sky, ready to slice my belly open like a forced harakiri. My feet caught in the jungle’s vines.

I took a deep breath. The classic nightmare.

But what was it that my subconscious insisted on processing through such a blood-soaked dream?

Who was he?

And where did that jungle grow?

My brain fired off bizarre questions in that second.

Speaking of seconds—my eyes searched toward the bedside table, where the red digits of the clock radio blurred toward me.

I had to find my glasses to see clearly.

My hand groped toward the book I had left there the night before, with my glasses on top. I was sure of it.

My fingers found the frame, and I quickly put them on.

4:05

Early morning. The hour of fate, my brain suggested. I disagreed—I was sure fate had something to do with midnight and ghosts. But my fate had just been to survive an attempted murder! So maybe this was the hour of fate.

I felt wronged. I was the victim. But of whom?

There was no chance I could fall asleep again, so I might as well get up and go to the kitchen, where the sunrise would soon begin painting the window.

It was midsummer, and up here in the North, the days were long—meaning the sun rose very early.

We were used to it, and in fact, it gave energy.

I boiled water and made a cup of instant coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table.

It was cozy here—but then again, I had decorated it myself. No one else could do it for me, after I was left alone and had to find a new place to live.

Maybe he was my ex-partner? Was it him who rang my bell in the dreamworld of the night? Was he still angry at me—or so disappointed that he wanted to kill me?

That was the linear way of thinking, I told myself.

But dreams are not linear. He hadn’t actually done this to me, but my subconscious seemed to think there was a knot of emotion blocking the way—so maybe he should have a reason to do it.

Could that be it?

That felt right.

But a partner who broke every rule and was a stiff-necked liar—I couldn’t build a new life with him.

I enjoyed the cigarette smoke with my coffee. There was comfort in having sorted out the meaning of the dream.

A tiny flap inside my brain lifted. Maybe it was something else—yes, what could it be?

Unease crept in again. Maybe this wasn’t about the obvious rift with my ex. Maybe it was my urge to interpret and find easy answers that had sent me down this path.

I thought.

Felt inside myself. Had I hurt anyone? Had I neglected something?

I knew I should write more. More often. My "novel that doesn’t write itself" and all the short stories.

Was it simply my guilty conscience that had caught up with me in the dark of night?

Did it mean I was letting down my readers and subscribers? Were they now the ones lifting the knife toward me?

I tried to defend myself. I’m doing all I can!

NO, thundered a voice—You waste your time reading and scrolling online. You’re not writing!

I shrank on the hard kitchen chair. It wasn’t comfortable. Maybe that was the point—this courtroom-kitchen shouldn’t be comfortable.

I was guilty. I had no arguments.

Still, a flickering hope tried to be heard: “But one needs inspiration from somewhere…” it offered.

No reply from the voice.

Just silence. Only the ticking of the clock broke it.

Was I being too hard on myself? Maybe.

In any case, nothing that should mean gutting myself.

Dreams are sometimes sick. This one certainly was.

Far too vivid.

4:16

The coffee was warm enough to drink faster now.

The cigarette was out.

Bad habits.

A small light began to appear on the horizon. Sunrise was near.

Suddenly, I sat up straight. Maybe that was it. Bad habits! My coffee drinking and smoking!

They were the ones tearing my belly open. My wallet, at least.

Why spend money on cigarettes just to let them go up in smoke? And ruin my health?

Of course it was my bad habits gutting me.

The coffee corroded my stomach, pushing me toward ulcers again and again. Acid-blocking meds. Hours of discomfort.

Cigarettes rising in price. Preventing savings. The endless spiral.

I had to stop. Ten cigarettes left in the pack.

Well—I had already smoked today, so I might as well stretch the rest over the day and be smoke-free from tomorrow morning.

I leaned back. Briefly satisfied with myself.

My hand reached automatically for the cigarette pack. Time to celebrate my decision.

That’s when I saw myself from outside.

What an idiot. Planning a smoking stop and celebrating with one more cigarette.

I sort of stepped out of my body.

Stood beside myself, looking at the pitiful wreck, full of excuses and bad habits.

Did I even have the character to follow through?

I hovered a moment above myself.

Then saw the light—so intense and warm. Was it the sunrise?

I didn’t know. But I sensed this meeting with the light wasn’t accidental.

I was given a choice. You are dying—you can go back and revise your life, your habits, or you can take the ticket into the warm, safe light.

“What do you choose?” said the voice.

“I choose to be kind to myself.

To do my work as conscientiously as I can and write the stories I feel have value. The others I’ll let go.

I choose to give up cigarettes and bad habits.

I choose life.

I want to see the sunrise—but also the sunset, when it’s beautiful.

I want to be open and honest to new people.”

“You’ll get that,” said the voice—and someone clicked off the speaker.

I felt the darkness for a moment and then slowly opened my eyes.

Lifted my head from my chest and saw the world as if for the first time.

Clear, fresh, inviting.

Joy filled me.

Had I truly been on the verge of death?

Had I been gone for a moment and returned to life?

It felt like the near-death experiences I https://ko-fi.com/henrikhagelandhad so often read about.

My chance. My life. My restart.

There was definitely someone ringing my bell like mad.

Now life must be lived.

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Authors Note.

This story was written as a response to a writing prompt: “It’s 4am and someone’s ringing your bell.” I often write about change, inner struggles, and human contradictions — this piece reflects a mix of surreal experience and honest self-reflection. If you’ve ever sat alone with your thoughts before dawn, maybe you’ll recognize a part of yourself in this story.

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