Addiction Runs in My Veins

The Next Generation | Flair Doherty | Acrylic and Colored Pencil

Addiction Runs in My Veins by Sophia Piras

“You oughta quit that,” Jason mumbles halfheartedly, sighing and pointing lazily at my lit cigarette with his index finger.

I scoff, flipping him the bird and taking a nice, long puff of my cigarette—just to spite him.

“Why? It’s my damn body, ain’t it?” I smirk, exhaling the smoke from my lungs as I speak, the rest of it lingering in my throat before I expel it through my nose in a quick huff.

“Why do ya even do it, eh? Y’know it hurts ya. Kills ya too.” Jason tries to reason with me, but he knows it's already a lost cause.

“Maybe I like that,” I snicker, taking another hefty drag of my cigarette, feeling the nicotine and smoke fill my lungs to the brim.

“Eh? Like what? The thought that it’ll kill ya? Or that it’s bad for ya?” Jason asks, cocking a brow, an underlying tone of confusion and concern in his voice.

“Does it even matter at this point?” I shrug, flicking the ash off my cigarette and stretching out my limbs, a few of my bones cracking as I do so.

“‘Course it does, ya damn dummy!” Jason smacks me on my arm, frowning disapprovingly. 

“What the hell was that for?” I snarl, propping my cigarette in between my lips, it dangling daringly while I rub the now red mark on my arm.

“What yer sayin’ ain't right, man.” 

“Why the hell ain't it?! It's just my damn opinion.”

“Yeh? Well s’borderline suicidal, can’t ya see?” 

That makes me stop everything I’m doing, my cigarette dropping from my mouth and landing on the ground. The smoke swirling, waltzing, dancing up, just to fade into the chilly night air. I blink hard a few times, dumbfounded.

“What...?” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“Ya heard me, Marcus,” Jason barks, his voice growing a bit louder. I just stare dumbly at him, as if he just rearranged my organs in alphabetical order then shoved them back into my lanky body.

“Why do ya do it, Marc?” Jason inquiries after a while of awkward silence.

Silence again.

Jason could probably see the gears turning in my head. Why do I do it? It’s not like it's that pleasurable. Of course it is, but not to a blissful degree. So I ask myself again, why?

“Blood.”

“What? The hell does that gotta do with this?”

“It’s in my blood.”

“S’cuse ya? That don't make no sense, Marcus.”

“My dad.”

“What ‘bout him?” 

“My grandpops.”

“Huh?!”

“My mom,” I add, my voice steady but my face contorted in thought and realization.

“Alright, you oughta start makin’ some sense soon, or Imma give ya a black eye or two, Marcus Mathews,” Jason is getting pissed, I can tell. But I don't want to explain, I don't want to explain because then I’ll have to face the damn truth too. And that's something I've been avoiding for years. Avoiding like the plague, like that one phone call from the hospital. Like death.

“They’ve all done it, they all do it,” I continue, almost as if I’m talking to myself at this point. Jason glares at me, jaw clenched and fists ready to knock me out cold.

“Don't you get it? It's everything I've ever known, everything I have.”

“I’d either start talkin’ like a normal person, or shut yer damn trap right ‘round now, Marcus,” Jason warns me, clearly at his breaking point soon. I shake my head, sigh and rub my eyes with my thumb and pointer finger. The same pointer finger that's stained a yellowish color by the tobacco tar.

“It’s an addiction,” I whisper, a blank expression on my face. 

“Well gee thanks, Sherlock Holmes,” Jason snaps sarcastically, scowling at me, pure and utter annoyance on his face.

“No, Jason. An addiction that runs in my blood. My family. My DNA.”

“Oh…” Is the only thing Jason murmurs, a dark, sorrowful realization etched into his features. The tension so thick, you could bite into it with a soft crunch. 

“They’ve all done it, just like me. Makes me feel… at home. Like I’m still with them. Like they're still here.”

Silence, silence, and more silence. Silence almost deafening, almost ear piercing. 

“I remember that day. The casket had just got hoisted down into the cold ground, covered up with the miserable dirt. Do you know what my dad said to me?”

Silence, but Jason shook his head. A silent no.

“He told me, ‘son, she was never meant for this earth.’ Then pulled out a cig, just like that one,” I point down at the crumbled up cigarette I dropped, that’s now a burnt up pile of ash.

“Y-yeah…? What then?” Jason finally pipped up, surprising me momentarily.

“Nothing. He just handed me the cigarette, lit it for me, and patted me roughly on the back. I was eight. Eight and two months old.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me, his mouth slightly agape, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. I don’t blame him.