Disclaimer: I don't own SquareEnix or the characters. Don't smoke, you'll get cancer.
Cigarette's and I have had a love-hate relationship. My father used to smoke them before he died. I remember the way the smoke would sink into everything and burn my nose, but I still loved it. I would lovingly clean his ash trays and would sometimes fight my sisters for the privilege. So that is my first memory with cigarettes, in the hand of my father, broken down, tired from work.
I vaguely remember vowing to my mom that I would never smoke. But, of course things and people change. From as young as the age of 12 I can remember wanting a cigarette. On days when I was stressed, I would pretend to smoke and it would calm me down. It reminded me of my family, my father. He may have been fucked up but he kept trying, and that's what I knew I needed to do. I was pushed over the edge after my first murder. She was too pretty to die, really. I made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Never look into their eyes, especially not the first time. You won't forget. But I made it quick for her, she may have died but she didn't suffer.
After that I wanted nothing more than a cigarette. I needed something comforting, constant. A woman wouldn't do, I love them, but they're so fucking erratic sometimes. Hot cold hot cold.
It went to the first liquor store I could find and it looked to me like the area of sin. The lady in front of me was a stereotypical smoker. Bleached blonde, raspy voice, and wrinkles that made her look older than she probably was. She gave me a tired smile, she had seen shitty times. But then again, so had I. Hell, if I hadn't, I wouldn't be standing here.
But hell, I didn't care. As soon as it was my turn I asked for a pack of SOLDIER's Choice, since they were the cheapest in the slums. Fucking ShinRA owns everything. The guy behind the counter asked me three times if I wanted a box or soft pack. I kept asking him to repeat himself, pretending I couldn't hear him, because I couldn't decide and didn't want to seem stupid. Finally, I settled on a soft pack and a faulty orange lighter.
Due to the wind, I couldn't make the cigarette hold a light. However, I was able to take a puff. Honestly, it was love. No, it was more like a good, old-fashioned, cheap whore, warm, comforting familiar. You knew she would be there for you when you needed her, just like she always was. All you had to do was lay a few bucks on the counter and she was yours for the evening. It felt like coming home should feel.
People say cigarettes kill, but at the same time, it's never been my intention to grow old.