I Gave Her the Last Cigarette… Hours Later, She Died of Addiction

"My high is not your high. Peer influence will kill our generation."

All characters in my clique were creative, playful and seemingly normal.

That was in my childhood days. 22 years now I am alone, writing, acting and dying.

Memories with you are timeless and it's my hope you are doing just fine.

Oh! Rest in peace Tom. I heard you got in an accident last summer. Am sorry I did not make it to the funeral.

I am told Jack just registered a communications company?- You always despised his ability back in the day. Good enough you can hardly feel the shame.

Memories were loud and the wish to go back to the meadows was so dear. My eyes darted and scanned. Facebook, Instagram & Snapchat.

Felicia my Love.

Where do I find you?

I hope you managed to be a pilot. That was your dream.

I miss our days. I always wish I could see you again.

Felicia and I were always together. Growing up as neighbors and family friends.

It's getting late and I have to leave the office. I dash out and decide to take the back street and walk home.

The pathways are filled with teenagers.

Lazy, jobless, broke but ironically, dressed ostentatiously.

That's our generation.

We care too much about our WhatsApp display pictures. We would die to look good on Instagram. Sadly, they are depressed, sick and addicts.

That's less important.

From within, what matters is what others will see.

The smoke of marijuana is intense. Ghosting into the breeze and filling our lungs. These 15 to 21 aged teens did not seem to care. I lazily walk to find my usual smoking spot and light my cigar.

"He is recovered and we therefore recommend his clearance from rehabilitation. After being here for six months, he has shown endurance in being sober and no signs of addiction to heroin."

I had spent six months in a rehabilitation center, after my graduation. Two years later, this is my last cigar. I always promise myself every day when I wake up.

With a cloud of smoke, my eyes remain gazed. People are in a rush. I cannot capture faces clearly. Forgive my professionalism, I am one who never minds their own business.

As the smoke fades, I notice a girl leaning on the adjacent wall. Her shaky nature is a disturbing sight. I am prompted to get closer.

She was definitely for the streets. Her messy hair and ripped jeans. Dust all over her arms and face could not hide the suffering.

Her teeth chattering, she shamefully stretched for my cigar.

At this moment, I am unable to define what help and need really mean.

Does she need my cigarette for her to be okay?

Will giving her my cigarette help her out of this situation?

I struggle between being astute and being a fool. I finally passed her the joint.

Her lips are blue due to the cold but their dark nature was peculiar.

Seemingly in her early 20's.

The birthmark below her left eye spotted her beauty.

The birthmark!

Felicia!

Best friends forever.

Is this what we really meant?

We vowed to be open. How did you get here?

Forgive me for losing contact but you know how bad I dislike surprises.

Six years of separation had completely trashed all the goodness in her.

Felicia!

You bought me the first cigar. I was never supposed to buy you the last. At least not in this condition.

She is a snob. Before I know it, she is hurling insults. A gang of four approaches and takes her away. They seem familiar to each other. Wow! It's her new clique. My eyes glimmered with watery tears and my world crumbled.

Six years now and those are the memories left of Felicia and I. I never made to see her again after that night.

I sit in my bed and decide to track her down. The urge to rescue her is overwhelming.

I visit my Facebook page for a review. This time hoping, she will surface like she did one week ago.

"Toast to the ones that we lost on the way"

"Another fallen Angel"

"R.I.P Felicia"

I had just bought her the last cigar!

It was devastating.

Overdose on cocaine had won. She was no more.

Frustrated and depressed, I still hide my emotions. Emojis are my dearest weapon.

I miss her, but in all my posts, we were okay.

I post marijuana and pumper it with all the greatness.

How soon shall we get off the hook?

It doesn't matter. For now, we are the puff and passing generation.

Puff and dying generation.

That is more important.

To Us!

A fictional story written 8 years ago.

Wild thoughts, they say!