In a Puff Of Smoke

"I don't like it when you smoke," she said quietly — trying and failing to hide the disappointment in her voice.

I exhaled a puff of white smoke and watched it float away and then disappear. Silence lingered in the air as I kept staring at the sky.

"I know. This will be the last pack." I finally replied. I took out the cigarette pack from my shirt pocket and gave it a shake — empty. I didn't look at her.

"That's what you always say! Mark you're dying! Stop it. Please!" She sounded like she was on the verge of tears.

"I'm dying," I repeated under my breath. "That's true. And the fault is only mine." My lips sealed around the cigarette once more. I still didn't look at her.

We were standing on the terrace of my office building, the lunch break would soon be over.

"Mark, please. It isn't too late, you can still stop. You know that's what I always wanted." she begged. I could hear her sobbing now. I could feel warm tears streaking her beautiful face, it's always the same. I kept my eyes fixed on the top of another building and sighed.

“I know El, but I can't let it go. I can't let you go!" Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to cry.

“You have to, Mark, you have to." And then there was silence.

I turned around to look at her, but she wasn't there, she had left. I sighed once more, looking at the cigarette butt I had unconsciously thrown down. I crushed it with the heel of my foot. Lunch was over.

My wife, Elen, was suffering from a terminal disease. For how long, I don't know; she never told me. She hid it from me as long as possible, by making excuses for her bad health, always visiting the doctor alone, and such.

I always had a smoking problem, and she disliked it. But it was recent years when she finally started telling me to stop.

She was successful in some ways, for I did cut down my smoking by a lot. But I had withdrawals, and they were severe. She was there for me every second of it, taking care of me and encouraging me, making me believe that I can get out of my addiction.

When in reality, she was the one who was dying.

She took care of me when I should have been taking care of her.

I realized my mistake soon, but it was too late. She fell terribly ill and I had to rush her to the hospital. The doctor gave me the news and my world crumbled around me. She finally confessed to everything she was hiding until then.

She said "It isn't your fault. This was inevitable." But I couldn't believe her.

She died in the hospital a fews days later. To say I was devastated would be an understatement. I stayed in my house for weeks, eating almost nothing and just crying to myself in my bed.

But eventually I moved on. It never hurt any less, but I had to continue with my life.

I was clean from smoking. Because before she died, she had told me to quit smoking and take care of my health — because now she won't be there to do it for me.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. I avoided smoking like the plague — till one day.

It was her death anniversary and I had taken the day off from work because I didn't feel quite right. I stayed up inside my house for the whole day. As the day passed, the feelings worsened. All the guilt and remorse washed over me like a tidal wave and I couldn't control myself. I went out and bought some cigarette packs, to ease the pain.

I was lying on my living room couch — a complete mess. The floor was littered with empty cigarette packs and the room felt full of smoke.

I was coughing hard when I suddenly felt a presence in the room. So I looked up and there she was. She looked beautiful and young as always. At first I thought I was imagining things, but then she spoke. She asked me why I had started smoking again, that I should quit it. She said a lot of other stuff too, but all I did was sit there and cry looking at her.

I woke up the next morning with no memory of falling asleep. The encounter felt like a dream and I went to work with a heavy heart once again.

Throughout the day I kept thinking about El. At first I was skeptical, but I had to try again, so I bought another pack of cigarette on my way back home.

That night, she appeared again.

I typed away on the keyboard, but my mind was somewhere else. El appears every time I smoke and as a result, I've started smoking heavily, even more than I did years ago. The doctor said that I'm killing myself. El says the same. But I don't care.

I haven't told anyone about it, especially not the doctor. I don't want him to think I've gone schizophrenic and give me meds. I can't risk it. For my part, I know El is real — or well, the ghost of her is real, because— because it just feels too real to be imagination.

Whenever she appears, she talks about my smoking problem. Sometimes I get lucky and divert her attention and we start talking about something else. But even when I'm not lucky, I can't care less. As long as I have her company, she can talk about whatever she wants.

By the time I was walking back home, it was 6 in the evening and the Sun was almost below the horizon. I stopped in front of the shop I usually buy my cigarettes from.

El's words came back to me, "You have to let go Mark. You can't keep doing this, you're hurting yourself. You're killing yourself."

She wasn't talking about the cigarettes, and I knew she was right. I should let go, I can't keep doing this. This isn't what El would have wanted. I have to let go.

Maybe I'll - one day.

I approached the familiar shop once again.

"A pack of cigarettes, please."