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Cigarettes have always been terrible for you. Personally I think anyone who smokes is stupid, I mean come on. Especially the people who say they can quit anytime. If you can quit anytime, can't you quit now? Cigarettes cause 480,000 deaths a year in the United States. Sure I live in Japan, but that’s still a shocking number. And to think people still put those toxic chemical smoke death sticks to their lips still and try to justify it still makes me scoff.
So why am I holding a cigarette right now?
I stared at the cigarette that I held in my hand, the box on my bedside and lighter next to it. And I just stared at it, it’s orange bottom and brown, tobacco top. Knowing damn well what’s inside, probably tar and carbon monoxide. Tar isn’t meant to be put in your system already and carbon monoxide is notoriously known for being a silent killer. But here I am. How did I get here? Oh, right.
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Saiki doesn’t talk to strangers. Well, he doesn’t exactly talk to anyone really. He doesn’t like talking, that’s why he uses telepathy majority of the time. Moving his mouth to push words out through his lips is just so exhausting. He’ll exercise his tongue whenever he’s eating, preferably coffee jelly. And most kids in his school are strangers to him. Well, he knows their names. Their names and their thoughts. But some people, he refers to them as the obscure background characters, he doesn’t even know at all. Despite a small school, students slip under his radar.
Like this kid, who he’s never seen before, had black hair and thick bangs that casted a shadow over his dark eyes, and his skin was pale like a sickly ghost. And he was skinny, like skin and bones, and you could tell through his uniform. His sleeves didn't hug his wrists the way you’d think they would, and his skin stretched over his long, boney fingers in a way that looked like poorly done taxidermy. Was this a scrawny first year?
“Hey,” the kid spoke. They were outside the school in the back, and Saiki wanted to teleport home today. Why? Oh, not too important. Saiki looked this kid up and down, and he could see his thoughts. But they were odd, all jumbled up and pushed over each other. It sounded like static from an old TV, or like a loud crowd. Saiki didn't like the fact he couldn’t pick out a specific thought from this kid, and he didn’t like he looked like he belonged in America with a gun in his backpack. But now he was burning with curiosity.
“What do you want?” Saiki said calmly, mouth not moving as he spoke telepathically to the mysterious kid. The kid gad his hands in his pockets, his bag slung over his shoulder with one of the straps slipping off of it. The kid spoke quickly, his voice was a little raspy. Rough but high pitched, more on the childish side. “My name is Yoshida… and I’ve seen you around before, Saiki.”
He knows my name, but I don’t know his.
“And I’ve noticed something about you,”
Crap, could it be my powers? Did he see me teleport? Did he notice something… odd? Did Toritsuka tell him? No, he wouldn’t have, and Mikoto wouldn’t either-
“You’re depressed, right?”
…What.
“Excuse me?” Saiki looked genuinely confused. But mostly because Yoshida was kinda right and Saiki didn’t like that. He didn’t like when people dug into his brain, so he never let people do it. Oh, remember when I said that Saiki wanted to teleport home today, unlike his usual preference on walking, and I said that it wasn’t important as to why? Well.
I can’t be that easy to read. I’ve never been.
Saiki just stared at Yoshida. Honestly these past few months he hasn’t felt like himself. All his life he kept up a nonchalant attitude, and he’s always been a bit antisocial and extremely introverted. He hated attention, and for a while as a younger kid he hated being touched, which led him to be a bit touch deprived. And now, in school, he’s been struggling a lot. Not with grades or any other mundane issues, but with motivation. Or something. He just can’t get himself up in the morning, and he just can’t get himself to do any of his assignments for anything.
And even worse, he stopped wanting to see his friends.
Right, Saiki hates his friends. But he doesn’t. No matter what he always liked being around them, but he just never would admit it. But now he’d rather die than let himself follow Nendo or Kaido or Teruhashi or whoever around to go on their side quests. He actually makes excuses now, and he makes sure he can get away. The easiest way was teleportation, so he does that now. He teleports to his room where he doesn’t leave until dinner.
“I never see you with anyone,” Yoshida said. “I can help.”
This Yoshida guy wasn’t very well spoken. It was like his dialogue was written as lazily as possible, and Saiki honestly thinks that may be true. That’s not very nice, Saiki.
“What are you… hey, listen. If you’re trying to sell me drugs, I’m going to have to tell the principal. You shouldn’t be trying any of this, it’s inappropriate and immature,” Saiki stated confidently, trying to act like his normal self. Just in case this guy had eyes in his head, which he hoped not.
“Drugs? Nonono, cigarettes,” Yoshida said. He pulled out a pack, a brand new pack. “My dad has a lot of cigarettes so I steal them and sell them to some kids around here… And I’m very observant. Cigarettes help get stress away, that's what my dad tells me.”
“Invest in not listening to your dad anymore,” Saiki said plainly, completely ready to ignore this guy and turn around to walk away, before his mind wandered too quickly.
Maybe…
Cigarettes could do something, right? There's a positive to most bad things. Like how alcohol makes you feel all goofy, or how heroin makes you euphoric. That’s why drug addicts still take hits, and why alcoholics put the bottle to their lips.
Maybe.
One cigarette couldn’t hurt, right? Everyone smokes at least once just to see how it feels. Same with drinking. His parents drink occasionally, and they aren’t addicted. So… maybe.
.
.
.
Alright, I don’t really like flashbacks but that one seemed pretty important as to how I got here. Well, while you were reading that flashback I was lighting the cigarette up. I got this lighter from downstairs, my mom keeps it in a drawer in the kitchen so she could light her candles and such. I didn’t want to waste my money on a lighter.
I didn’t press the cigarette to my lips ss I lit it, instead I watched the light gray smoke float up into the air of my bedroom, its toxic aroma filling my nostrils with a bitter, pungent smell. I watched it burn for a few seconds, it’s black and white ash building up at its tip, sitting there waiting to be tapped on a glass ashtray. Sadly for the cigarette, I didn’t exactly have one.
I decided to say screw it, and pressed the cigarette to my lips. I breathed in, letting the smoke flow into my mouth and fall down my throat like water, filling my lungs with its poison, and I coughed. I leaned forward, cigarette held between my pointer and thumb, smoke shooting out of my mouth like breath in the cold, spitting up a little saliva right onto the blue sheets in front of me. I wiped my lips, and stared back at the cigarette, whose ash fell to the blankets, covering them in a distinct look of gray.
I stared for a few moments, before I pressed its end back to my lips and took in another gulp of smoke, blowing it out as I pulled the cigarette away. And it felt good.
I like it, that's scary.
I knew I should put the cigarette out, and get rid of this lighter. Throw it out my window and tell my mom I can just light the candles for her with my powers. I should’ve used my powers to light the cigarette, why didn't I?
Why am I smoking right now?
Whatever my mind said, I just kept smoking. It felt good. It felt good and I couldn’t lie, I started to get it. I get why people smoke, it gets rid of stress and helps you calm down. That feeling of smoke in your mouth is a unique sensation. And it’s nicotine, something thats highly addictive.
I grabbed the tip of the cigarette and put it out with my fingers, then promptly stood up and threw the cigarette, and the box of cigarettes, into my trash can. I got rid of the lighter, too. Right out the window to the great beyond. How it should be.
Then I threw myself at my desk, and started doing homework. I wanted to distract myself, I didn't want to smoke. I can’t smoke. Maybe that’s the motivation I needed, looking addiction in its face.
I gripped the pencil tightly, I couldn’t get a few words down before I couldn’t anymore. So, I stood up, the cigarettes now levitating, floating towards me from my trash can.
I shouldn’t smoke.
But I have to.