| 6 | Smoking Is An Art Of Decaying Lungs

***

I spent the remainder of my day in the woods; the same woods where I passed out like an idiot from hitting my head too hard. It was truly horrifying to come back to see a tree with your own blood splattered all over it like some kind of fucking halloween decoration. Of course, the animals in the forest didn't mind it, bloodshed happened all the time here. Hell, I could have been standing on a buried graveyard of animal corpses right now.

I sat down on a tree stump in the middle of a clearing where the cloudy, gray sky was visible. From the few days I've been here in New York State—I could assume the sun rarely came out. It was always cold; disheveled and never made out like the movies were. With cigarettes, however, the puffy smoke seemed to last longer, as well as the scent. The flame was more prone to being blown out—much like Wisconsin. If I woke up with amnesia one morning and looked out the window, I could probably convince myself with the thought of still being in Wisconsin. It was disclosure, truly.

The ground below my feet stained my shoes, as well as the bottom of my backpack. I unzipped my backpack and reached for my lighter and cigarette box that was well hidden under my textbooks. The cigarette box had a dent in it from the weight, a noticeable one on the word "Marlboro." I quickly lit my lighter, a white prestige spare, and managed to light the cigarette after a few tries. Anxiously, I kept the cigarette between my two fingers and relaxed myself as I mindlessly let it drift onto my lips.

"Aren't you a bit too young to smoke?" I panicked, turning around to be met with the boy who was named Tyler—Ty actually. He had a leather jacket that was swung loosely over his shoulders.

I shook my head, puffing the smoke out and watched it disappear into the cold atmosphere. It wasn't like I was afraid of someone seeing me smoke—it was more of the questioning and the awkward conversation that would follow. I wasn't the type to talk, I'd rather be the "stoic" and "silent" type—introverted perhaps. Of course, the red-eyed male was most likely wanted an answer. So with a bland voice that showed no interest in further conversation, I was as blunt as possible.

"Yeah."

"Then—" he looked to be lost for words, "—why do you smoke, then?"

I shook my head again, "It's a habit. You're starting to sound like my mother, Tyler."

He frowned, the corners of his lips curving perfectly downwards, "It's Ty. I don't want to be confused for Tyler Christie."

"Why are you asking in the first place?"

He paused for a moment, his eye(s?) intently watching me as I breathed in the smoke, then let it go back into the atmosphere. "I'm just interested. Jason described you as someone that was mysterious—he didn't mention a stoner as one of your traits."

"Look," I rolled my eyes seemingly into the back of my head, "smoking is an art—God's gift of nicotine has solved all my problems."

"You're starting to sound like Brice."

I scrunched my nose, "The Australian?"

"Yeah, Brice Purton," he nodded in agreement. He adjusted the jacket so it wouldn't fall down. "So, art you say?"

I bit my lip, hesitant on a proper, structured answer, "It's an art. You know how dancing is a type of art? It's like that, but different."

And that's when I found myself explaining the euphoria cigarettes gave me to a guy that was no older than me.

"Smoking is an art of decaying lungs. It's like a game; the more you smoke the worse your condition gets. It's like New Years, and when you know that life is rough—a euphoriant kingdom is awaiting you in these little packets. It's an exhilaration of winning an award, or being in the presence of someone, or something, you love so much. It's an unbelievable euphoria—Tyler Ellis—and it's a euphoria for those who don't have anything else to lose but themselves."

He widened his eyes for a moment, practically as if moved by my words. "You're pretty odd; too weird to live, too rare to die perhaps."

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

"It is a compliment. Where are you from?"

"Wisconsin."

"That's quite far from here," he commented monotonously, as if I didn't know that already. I chose to be polite and nod my head in agreement, following with the word, "Yeah."

A brief silence passed, followed by the death of my cigarette. I grabbed another out of the box, causing Ty to look at me as if a deer in headlights, "How much cigarettes do you go through in a day?"

"Don't know, maybe more than five? I smoke a lot before school, after school, and before I go to sleep. It keeps me—sane."

"You honestly don't mind if it fucks up your lungs?" I took note of his word choice.

"I've been smoking since I was eleven I think," I confessed, shrugging it off like it was nothing, "almost six years of free cigarettes and six years of health problems always fly by before you know it."

His eye(s?) speak for itself/themselves; filled with pity and sadness. Speechless perhaps, he only replied with a one word phrase — "Oh."

"Yeah—oh," I muttered. I flicked some of the ashes away from the tip of the cigarette, "Don't give me your pity."

He gulped, "You're really fascinating, you know? People have been talking about you; the new kid, and their impression of you is already implanted like a migraine, or a computer chip in the head."

"It's Seto," I replied with, "Seto Source. I don't think I've formally greeted someone yet, so there you go. My name is Seto Source—sixteen years old and turning seventeen on December 26th."

He smiled back, "Thank you."

***

I didn't think of myself as a bad influence to others, but it had seemed my cigarette ashes managed to rub onto Ty. I tried to convince him not to smoke—but he said otherwise as he gladly took a cigarette from my Marlboro pack and smoked it like it was the most normal thing. Part of me was enraged; angered that someone was willing to give up their own life just for a euphoria. The other part understood it all perfectly, and didn't really mind it. Though it did ache me on the inside, I tried to ignore it as best I could.

It was already nightfall and Ty had left about twenty minutes ago. I was in the dark, resisting the urge to smoke through the whole pack of my remaining cigarettes. With all the stress building up, I honestly don't think my stash of cigars could last—especially since the temptation was growing stronger each day. December 26th is when it would happen; though I'd only be seventeen I couldn't risk being sent away. It was my senior year in high school—my parents had no point in keeping me if I was going to graduate soon. I've already made my plans for what was going to happen. It's been changing these past few days; but I finally got it. Precisely a month from now I would be gone—November 26th marks a revolution. I couldn't risk getting captured by my parents, so my plan was full proof.

It was perfect—almost like a twisted silhouette in the hands of tragedy.

As I basked in my own glory, I managed to light another cigarette. "Just one more—my last one for the night," I muttered to myself.

I heard a voice behind me that nearly made my heart stop. It felt like a horror movie.

"Pretty boys like you shouldn't smoke."

Like hell—how many times are people going to interrupt me like those cliché stories?

I felt a lump in my throat as I saw the flame go out. The cigarette was taken from my lips; being crumpled up in the stranger's fist. I fully knew who that stranger was, even in the dark with the thin moonlight strip I could see their silhouette lingering over me like a tall shadow. I managed to not stutter, and I managed to keep what was left of my confidence.

"What do you want—" I began, "Purton."

"I saw you were," he said, tracing up his fingers below my chin towards the side of my face, "watching my conversation with Bonkers earlier."

I widened my eyes, clenching my fist while turning away, "I don't know what you're talking about."

He shook his head, chuckling as if darkly, "Oh? Really now? I'm not stupid, Source. Do you truly think you could have gotten away with standing there, blandly in a crowd sticking out like a sore thumb?"

Fuck.

+

I was decently happy to run out of that art class and towards my locker. School was over, much to my pleasure. Though my "plan" mainly revolved around school, it was, still, technically school. It was boring—nonchalant in the end. I took no hesitation to grab my stuff and leave, fading off into the crowd of (tall) people.

Yet, as if there was a beacon, or possibly fate pulling its strings, there I stood; blank and confused. Knowing my luck, I would bump into the perfectionist once more.

He stood there; the center of attention in the hallway. His blond hair was covered with a gray beanie that managed to slouch, and his postures was straight; smooth and confident even. He held his sketchbook in his left hand and his pencil pouch in his right. His bag was swung over his left shoulder, not slouching. He wore a leather jacket over his shirt, which didn't look very comfortable or warm. He was talking to a girl—possibly flirting? I edged into the conversation a bit, mixing in with the (tall) people that were still at their lockers.

"Shelby thinks we're dating in secret—she won't leave me alone about it," was the first thing I heard.

"What did she say about the subject?" The girl replied. She had porcelain features that complimented her brown eyes. Her hair was fascinating; a portion of it was shaved towards the right, but from what I could see it was brown, or possibly black, colored. It was a pixie cut with a fringe that fell past a bit from her left eye. She was faired skinned and had a voice that sounded a bit sore.

"You and Decepti really need to stop hitting on each other—blah blah blah," the Australian seemed to have mimicked, what I would assume to be, girlfriend.

"She still calls me Decepti?"

"Yeah, she calls you by your screen name too; DeceptiBonk this and DeceptiBonk that. It's not like she knows your actual name—nor she knows how you look like," Brice huffed, crossing his arms and slouching a bit.

"She reads your text messages, then?"

"Yeah—it's weird but I like her."

"Like? You should break up with her." That answers my question.

"She's pretty—"

"She's awful. Can't she understand that you are your own human being—a human being that actually has friends that are of female gender?"

"I know but—"

The girl, DeceptiBonk, took at step towards the Aussie and patted his shoulder, "Look Brice—you can't let her control your own life. Doesn't she yell at you a lot and nearly hit you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Brice, that's a sign of an abusive relationship! Get it in your god damned head! I'm worried about you Brice—everyone's worried!"

"I'll tell Shelby that you're just a friend, Bonkers."

"Brice, please don't see her again. I'm so fucking worried for you and for your safety."

He quickly gave an exasperated sigh, quickly grasping the girl into a quick hug before letting go. "I promise you I won't let things escalate to the point where I'm in danger."

The girl frowned, wiping her eyes a bit, "The others are going to be mad that I couldn't convince you—"

The blond turned and disappeared into the crowd. The girl was left standing there, crying a bit as she walked the other direction. I bit my lip, hesitant to chase after the girl but instead went to follow Brice. He could be easily spotted; he was tall and bulky with a goofy looking beanie that barely managed to slouch. Down an eastern staircase and out the side doors, I tried to be inconspicuous as we left the building. I didn't want to make it so obvious that I was following him—but then again why was I following him in the first place?

Brice was someone that I learned to be "unpredictable." He seemed like an asshole, but one with a personality. He seemed to be heading towards the forest that I ran away to days prior. It was close enough to the school, about six or seven blocks down.

As I followed he would occasionally stop and look over his shoulder. I tried to hide, but I felt like he was acting. He could have saw me—I know he would see me. Yet, was he playing dumb? I was like a large, blinking hammer in a clear field. He didn't do anything—he just kept walking. I was in the clear, but was I truly?

+

"You know what I'm talking about, don't play dumb, Source. The look in your eyes within the silver strip of moonlight says it all."

"Get to the point," I was blunt as ever.

"So you do admit to stalking me when I was walking home?"

"Fuck you and your shitty wordplay—you're wasting my time."

"Technically, you weren't doing anything important. So, I'd suggest you'd hear me out before something bad happens, sweetheart."

Before I knew it, there was a tug on my shirt, followed by my feet dangling in the air as I squirmed. "How much of the conversation did you hear? How long were you following me?"

"Why should I tell you?" I harshly snapped.

"It would be a shame if I reported you to the school for smoking—ah and it would be a shame for rumors about the new rich kid would begin to spread. I've done my research about you, Source—your face is practically plastered all over the Internet along with your parents. Corporation this—corporation that."

I winced, confessing, "I heard most of your conversation in the hallway—and I lost you when you went on Quarterly Street. I swear if you actually—"

He dropped me. I planted on the ground, sinking deep into the mud and my outfit getting soiled. I growled; he smirked.

"Oh, so you do confess to being the son of Alexander Source? Interesting. To think it would be easy to make you squeal—I've got all the information I need."

"And what will you do with that information, Brice?" I taunted—not the best particular idea.

He placed a finger on my lips, hushing me temporarily, "I don't know, I'll play it as a card to my advantage in climbing the ranks."

"Ranks?" I questioned.

Grimly, his voice lingered in the air. His accent was thick, noticeable, "I'd rather not go into full blown detail, Source. But let me summarize it like this; whatever you heard in the hallway do please ignore or the consequences will be dire."

I opened my mouth to speak but was silenced once more, "Do not approach Bonkers, or anyone else about the situation and do not try to become acquaintances with me for as it will bite you back. You are interested in the people who dare to oppose you, Source—don't think I don't know that. You thrive on power and attention, you're like a parasite on the skin. You, however, interest me—which is why I stayed for that long watching you and Ellis converse."

I furrowed my eyebrows, speechless, "Oh? So what gives you the right to watch me, rather than I would watch you?"

"Many things; privilege comes easily."

I hissed, eventually managing to stand up from the mud. I was soaked, dirtied completely and desperately wanted to change. The more we talked the more I despised Brice Solace Purton. He was cocky—almost like an upgraded version of myself. Part of me wanted to get intertwined with his lies; his dirty tricks that had a deeper facade than I—but I knew that something was "up." It was all too—cliché. We were going to end up as allies somehow, it was fate. Relationships like these do not last forever.

"You're deep in thought, aren't you?"

"You're the one to notice," I spat, grabbing my backpack.

"Leaving so soon? I thought you liked civilized conversations."

I clicked my tongue, my shoes digging deep into the mud as I turned away. I didn't know what direction I was going, nor did I care. I wanted to get away from the forest—especially  away from Brice Solace Purton. I didn't hear his heavy footsteps follow me, nor did I hear his heavy, Australian accent lingering in the winter's air. Everything about him screamed "mysterious" — wanting attention perhaps?

He reminded me of, well, me in a sense. But I couldn't let that get to me, no matter how much I wanted to "play the game."

If Isaac was here then he would agree with me; Brice Solace Purton is bad news. Yet, he managed to get intertwined into a, supposed, abusive relationship—which does not connect to the web of events very well. I rubbed my temples, trying to figure out a singular point where I could draw one conclusion about what the fuck was going on.

I exited the woods, huffing and tired. My legs have out on me, as per usual, as I headed down the sidewalk onto a concrete path of faith. Maybe I was hallucinating, or maybe I was tired, but I could have sworn to heard the faintest of voices.

"Pretty boys like you shouldn't be painting your lungs with decaying paint."