My first cigarette

When I was a child the only smokers I knew were my relatives. There always was an uncle or a grandpa' friend who smoked. At family gatherings after  smoking outside, they always had a pungent and rancid stench about them. My uncle smokes only Diana, the same name of his daughter. Some years later, during my first year in high school, pillars of smoke always rose from groups of older boys, like many chimneys of the same house. Some classmates started to smoke to appear more confident and to have their own manner.. One of them was used to smoking, even the day I met him. He had a pallid face with a lot of freckles, long eyebrows that sometimes seemed like sticks pricking two black olives, those were his eyes. He was nice, but rude. Every morning I saw him coming from an alley, already with a fag in mouth. Later I discovered he also smokes joints before class; and that explained his numbness during lessons. He was already a caricature. Once, the classmates wrote on the blackboard a formula: ganja+ganjaman=Alain (this was his name). He and his reputation started to bother me, and I avoided him every time I could. The other smokers were five in a class of fifteen. They were different to Alain: they smoked by chance when there was enough time; always together, making some quick puff to the ground and then putting their fags between the index and the middle fingers. When I changed school I found a different scenario. Now, half of the classroom was composed by smokers. It was the same case in other classes. The way to school was covered by a certain yellow spit, typical of tobacco users, that indicated it better than any road sign. And after break, the junk basket became orange styled, cause of stubs, like a punk with floppy hair.

One day, I saw a pack of fags on the courtyard grass. It wasn't crumpled, so I picked up it. It was full, only two or three fags missing: it probably fell from someone's pocket. The same day, I went to the bathroom like students do when they are going to hide and smoke in peace. I turned and turned the pack in my hand, until I chose to try one. I took one of them – its scent was sweetish like honey – and I lit it with the lighter found in the pack. I coughed, but I didn't stop: Alain once told me how to do it proper. I finished it. I felt my tongue burning, and skin on my face was purple and pulsating, as if every pore was filled with lava. That was my fist and not the last cigarette.