I lumber morosely up four flights of stairs, and reach a colossal door, prison-like. It hangs over me, hunching. A thin radiating light shines through bordering the doorway, illuminating the grim outline of an eternal blackness. Enclasped in the swallowing darkness of the doorway, I pause. Hesitant and motionless, I stand gazing forward - fixated, but on nothing in particular. I propel my body forward, and the exit ruptures open with a gust of wind, powerful and stringent. I am staring through an open window, a portal to a baneful world of illicit existence, and tantalizing unpleasantness - but I am willing.
I drudge into the open arena, and gaze up and around me in awe. The monstrous door of the entryway is secured behind me. A dreary dimness prances about me. The sky is plastered with damp, light grey clouds, splayed out like metallic spray paint coated on a ceiling. The opaque greyness beleaguers me. A subtle, steady breeze blows my hair back, and my eyes squint from the impact. I linger forward, closer to the razor-sharp trimming of the rooftop’s edge.
I reach into a pocket on the front of my jacket, and pull out a new pack of cigarettes. The cellophane plastic is pulled taut around the gold and white package like crawling skin, and it crinkles with my fidgeting hands. After three swift beats into my cupped palm, I undress the sultry plastic and discard the unneeded fragments of litter. I slide the pack open and extract one cigarette. I pinch the end of the brown filter, and watch as the airy cylinder rises from the organized bastion of staunch soldiers with the coaxing of my wrist.
Now that I think about it, the first time I ever smoked a cigarette was with her. We planned to meet up before school one day, out near the baseball dugouts. It was blistering cold; my lips were cracked like dry earth. I walked there with my hands buried in my pockets digging for warmth. I watched her as I approached; she was smoking a cigarette, head tilted back with her eyes gently shut, smiling warmly like the sun itself was radiating upon her face – yet somehow it wasn’t. The contour of her figure is branded on my memory. With each elegant drag from the cigarette an enigma of smoke meandered from her mouth in white tendrils. She offered me one and I found myself compelled to accept. I was fervently and uncontrollably drawn to her. I’ve been smoking them everyday since.
I lay the cigarette between my lips, and vaguely sense the wafting scent of fresh tobacco, like butterscotch and earth. My finger grazes slowly, forward and back, over the staggered scratches imbedded in the glossy, tender-red lighter that I have gripped in my fist. I can feel the strain of each perforated ridge as they grind against the painted brushstrokes of my fingerprint. With the flick of my thumb, the union of spark and lighter fluid flourishes into a flame that reaches high and dissipates quickly due to the pervading wind. I cup my palm around the lighter, and try to spark a useable flame. I lure the lighter nearer to my face. Its emanating warmth tickles my skin. The flame lusts for the end of the cigarette, drawing closer with the controlled tug of my breath. They meet, and the burning cherry of crimson ember flares. The warm stream of smoke seeps into my mouth, and I feel as it drags down my throat into the chasm of my lungs. It touches the lining of my insides, caressing, polluting. An abundant cloud of transparent smoke billows out and converges with the passing wind.
My extremities tingle with each inhale. I take another drag, and exhale slowly, letting the smoke drift out of my open mouth like a whisper. I direct my vision out into the distance at blurry figures barely visible in the chewable fog. I begin to stroll restrictedly, parallel with the meridian of concrete and empty nothingness, dragging my feet and kicking up the tiny pebbles from the floor. I pillage more puffs from the mollifying cigarette. I blow out a strained trickle of smoke, and the curling vines remind me of her tangled hair. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach and my fertile eyes sit heavy.
The clouds above my head are swirling. I bring the cigarette to my lips and take another drag, with a slow, stringy pull. The warm smoke softens my taste buds as it streams over my tongue. The smoke exits my mouth like exhaust from a train. I take another drag, and then another.
I really f---ed up this time. She’s pregnant. Pregnant.
I don’t think I’ve blinked for minutes now. I feel my skin is taut and powdered with goose bumps. My arms are shivering, but I barely notice. I glance downward, and I am now standing with half of my feet hanging tantalizingly over the daunting edge of the brick building. I feel claustrophobic; the air clutches my skin like a wool sweater. The blotchy clouds look like ultrasounds. My legs are trembling, but I am frozen in place. The nearly finished cigarette is craned from the side of my mouth.
My head is hunched over, dangling, peering straight down at the ground. My breathing is slow and tense, controlled but distractedly panicked. The lit end of the cigarette is almost touching the butt.
I sense the sole pelt of a raindrop against my arm. More and more began to fall, yet I remain perched on the edge, unfazed. The rain patters against the marble pebbles, cacophonous yet serene, arousing like the flow of a showerhead. My heart is pounding out of my chest.

I’m supposed to be the adult here. The risk was always there, believe me, I know. But we were so careful. I can’t believe I let this happen. It’s all closing in now.
My eyes are locked on the concrete, four stories below me. My chest is floating up; I’m wavering. Time bobs about my head. All that remains of the cigarette is the yellow-stained butt, which still leans out the side of my mouth, unlit. The wind is picking up again. The butt flutters from my mouth, and I chase it with my eyes as the tempestuous wind and rain carry it in a swirling, downward spiral, like a skydiver plummeting in entanglement, vanishing in the thick abyss.