(DISCLAIMER: Prone to create misunderstandings if not completely read. So if you start, make sure you reach the end of the described TRUE STORY below.)

I felt like a bad ass rebel, when I smoked a puff of cigarette for the first time when I was 17. You know how when you are forbidden to do something, you become more eager to dare the consequences and feel adventurous about it, especially when not caught in the act. And talking about adolescence? The spirits of adventures and experiments just seeps through the blood urging you to try all deeds that cause excitement.

And in my case, I was lured by a smoking fetish: aroused by the sight of my other colleagues smoking, which kind of turned out to be a social cheat code to get noticed and make new friends. I hesitated smoking at first, apprehensive to digest the reality of creating a bad image of myself and being pertained to my non-smoking family background. But thanks to my asshole friends that I could never resist successfully.

I finally decided to take the bull by the horns and tried a Marlboro cigarette, promising myself it would be the last cigarette ever. Poor me, little did I know I had already fallen into a trap.

When I devoured a puff for the first time, I was afflicted by a light buzz in my head and felt instant vibes of relaxation. I felt amazed by how light headed a simple inhalation of some badly portrayed stuff would cause. Now I knew, why it becomes an addiction, why it begins from adolescence. Now I realized the reason behind those scenes in movies and series, why employees at workplaces gathered together at smoking area when they had an immense load of work piled up by their bosses. If relaxation embraces you upon inhaling a puff or two, why wouldn’t you be curious to try one and be fucking productive at your work right?

Days passed and I had made really cool acquaintances. People had more respect for me now. Of course, my friends circle increased. And I was now looking forward to try something new. Something more bad ass.

I found out about weed pills and you can’t believe I was on one the whole fucking time when I was out with my friends. My head felt even lighter though my limbs felt a little heavy. But let me tell you, smoking a weed had more fun in it. It was like a wand that triggered ecstasy and new thoughts & ideas. It would eliminate my boredom for a while and make me lose myself in deep thoughts. Smoking weed just made me feel 3 things all the time: HUNGRY, HAPPY, SLEEPY.

Besides, everything is better when you’re high. But smoking weed was a ‘worth it’ high.

Now talking about the present, I lay here on one of the soft hospital beds in Zakynthos islands. It’s very pretty out there. My husband has gone downstairs to try to contact over the phone to my family in Berkeley, to have one last look at me, alive. We haven’t been in touch with either of our families since we eloped together last year. They are unaware about the fact that they are going to be grandparents!

Or more precisely, they ‘were’ going to be grandparents. I feel awful to be diagnosed with a tubal ectopic pregnancy: the condition when the baby instead of developing in the uterus, starts developing in fallopian tube. The doctors say I have to abort the child under such a circumstance. Asking reason for the same, doctors have blamed my health history. Unaware of my cancer reaching its last stage today, I feel completely gruesome. Now I don’t really need to ask reasons behind my health being so atrocious to me today, do I?

The reckless and invincible bad ass feelings that had enveloped me years ago have transformed into this barbaric and horrifying experience today. I remember how I felt the little warmth through my chapped lips holding a cigarette in my crossed fingers, I felt it in my flesh and bones that I’m breathing, clueless about how each breath just became a burden. Burden which came with an expiration date of my survival.

I feel like a murderer today. Murderer of my own baby.
Things could’ve been different if I wasn’t lured by the social drama when I was 17, if I had control over me and had rejected that day.
My baby could’ve been alive today, if I had abided by my promise of smoking the first and last cigarette.
I could’ve made them grandparents.
I could’ve been in good relations with my family,
And not eloped away.
I could’ve completed my long bucket list,
Fulfilling my dreams of bungee jumping and scuba diving,
And could’ve traveled the world.
I could’ve named my baby Vienna,
And dressed her nice,
Taking care of her when she came crying beside me.
I could’ve made my husband a father.
Creating a little family.
A little happy family.

Things could’ve been incredibly merrier today, only if it was genuinely my life’s last cigarette.

© The Honest FablerRadhika Ravindra
© Image Source — Google


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