I like to watch people. Not in a creepy way, though its hard to make that not creepy. I like to sit on a bench and watch. The park is my favorite spot, especially when its nice outside. You see the most interesting people at the park. Once I saw a woman wearing a rainbow, sequin dress to the park. Another time there was a man wearing an outfit made of duct tape.

Sometimes it's the normal people that are the most interesting. For example, there is a girl about my age, maybe younger, sitting next to me. She keeps looking at the cigarette in my hand. Not with disgust, but as though she had never seen one before.

I take a long drag and blow the smoke into the air. She follows it with her eyes, watching the puffs spiral into the sky.

I can't see her face from the corner of my eyes, just the large mass of frizzy, blond hair and her cheeks, a raw red from the cold. She looks at me again. I knock some ash off my cigarette. She opens her mouth.

"Sorry to bother you, but what is that?" She says, pointing at my cigarette. I look up to her. She has startling blue eyes framed by large eyelashes. I can't tell if she is wearing makeup or naturally that beautiful.

My attention snaps back to the question. What rock was she living under? It's 1994. Everyone smokes. If you don't you at least know what a cigarette is. Maybe she is homeschooled. Maybe she is playing me.

"You serious?" I ask, holding it closer to her. She scrunches up her face.

"It smells awful." She turns away and sneezed. I take another smokey breath. She watches.  I extend my hand to her. She looks at the cigarette.

"Wanna try?" I ask. She looks at my hand and back to me.

"Yes I would, thank you," she smiles as she gently takes the cigarette from my hand. She holds it in front of her, unsure what to do.

"Just put the brown part in your mouth, breathe in, and breathe out," I say. She nods, clearly anxious.

She raises the trembling cigarette to her mouth and takes an exaggerated breath. She holds it for a second, then rips the cigarette away from her mouth. She sputters and coughs smokey air.

I unwind the cigarette from her fingers. She gags. I look around, seeing we have attracted a little attention. 

"Not much of a smoker, hum?" I take a drag. She spits on the grass and shakes her head, hunching over with her elbows on her knees

"That was terrible," She says. I nod.

"They can kill you too," I state. She looks at me, horrified. I can't help but smirk. She is so naive.

"Are you trying to kill yourself? Do you need help?" She asks. My smile turns bitter. I sit for a second. She places her hand on my leg. It is supposed to be comforting, but it just makes me grit my teeth.

"In the words of John Green 'What you must understand about me is that I am a deeply unhappy person,'" I drop my cigarette on the ground and crush it under my boot.

Then I walk away. I don't turn around when she calls for me, even though she doesn't know my name.

Cigarette are a slow, addictive, death. Every smoker has a story. Before you tell them that smoking kills, know something is already killing them.

Smoking is bad, but the reason I smoke is worse.