Smoke, fog, and haze

I did the ironic thing. Despite the fact that I could not see in front of me because of the fog, I lit a cigarette, even knowing that it may make the haze take even longer to clear. I needed it. Cigarettes, I had learned, actually contain a lot of stimulants. But the habits of smoking them always helped me calm down. I felt more clear headed after having one, even though it was probably just the nicotine addiction. Just taking the edge off right before withdrawal kicked in.

"Alright, Bruce. Take it slow, you've got this." I tried to calm myself between puffs. I looked around, still could hardly see past my own hand. The illumination from the cigarette doing nothing to help. The small, handheld flashlight in my free hand, having taken the place of the lighter from a moment ago, did less. It was like shining a light at a wall. I bent down a little.

"Why'd it have to be heights?" I asked myself, noting how there was seemingly no floor on either side of me. Who knew how far down the pit went. "Well, now's a good a time as any to check."

I flicked the butt of the cigarette down the side of the platform, watching the glow as it fell, but a few feet down, and the fog overtook it. Could just be a few feet, could be a mile. I'd rather not find out. Looking back at the path, I knew there was only one direction to walk, and so I steadied myself, and slowly moved through the smoke, fog, and haze. "Wait for me, Margaret. I'll save you."

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This blog post is part of a series of stories associated with Practice makes pretense, in which a collection of writing done in response to prompts is compiled. Then, the reader should answer the following two questions: 1) What was your favorite thing about the writing? 2) What did you feel as you read it?

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