Acrid

Inspired by a man I saw on the metro, who was smoking.

And then, looking everyone square in the eyes, he took out his lighter and lit his cigarette. The light of the flame momentarily shadowed his face so that every wrinkle etched as a deep rivulet mapping out the ache of his past. And then it was gone. And he dragged his first puff. And exhaled.

The stream of cloudy smoke filled the metro car. People who hadn’t noticed what he’d been doing sniffed, confused, and looked around. When they found the culprit, they frowned, whispered to their friends if they had any, made angry eye contact with strangers if they didn’t. They shuffled or blocked their noses or turned away, closing their eyes – perhaps counting the seconds until the doors opened on their stop.

But no one told him to put it out.

The man smiled. Because he wasn’t so much doing this because his nicotine craving was clawing at his skin, but because he’d needed to prove to himself that humans were a worthless, spineless race who didn’t stand up for what they wanted or believed in. He’d needed, at this particular moment, to know that they were intrinsically weak. He’d needed to know that there was a reason he’d failed at everything, that it wasn’t his fault, that it was human nature and that was that. He’d needed to know why everything was falling to shit all around him but he wasn’t able to fix it. And now he did.

The metro jerked forward and came to a halt. The doors opened. The man dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushed it in with his heavy boot, and walked out onto the platform. He wasn’t as satisfied as he thought he’d be.