the first smoke
642 Words
Jessica was only ten years old the first time she stole cigarettes from her parents.
A bag of two hundred native smokes sat around the house so often that taking a few barely made a dent. Two here. Three there. Just enough not to be noticed. At first, her small hands shook while reaching into the pack. Her heart pounded harder than it probably should have for something so small.
But she still took them.
That was the beginning.
Not the drugs.
Not the destruction.
Just the beginning of needing something.
Most kids her age worried about homework, cartoons, or what bike they’d ride that afternoon. Jessica worried about getting caught. About the smell on her clothes. About hiding lighters. About whether smoke still lingered on her breath when she walked back through the front door.
The forest behind the arena became her hiding place.
She’d sit on fallen logs with friends, trying to look older than she was. Trying to act tough while coughing through cigarette smoke that burned her lungs and watered her eyes. They laughed about it. Made it feel normal. Made addiction feel like growing up.
Jessica liked the feeling more than she admitted.
Not even the nicotine itself at first — the escape. The rebellion. The thrill of doing something she wasn’t supposed to do. For a kid whose mind never seemed to slow down, smoking gave her something to focus on.
And soon, it wasn’t enough anymore.
By the summer she turned ten, older kids started appearing around her life more often. Friends’ older brothers. Teenagers who looked cool to a child desperate to feel older than she was. They played loud music, stayed out late, and carried themselves like they feared nothing.
Jessica admired that.
Then came the tiny bags.
Tiny white lines across tables and counters she was far too young to stand beside.
The first time she tried cocaine, she barely understood what she was touching. She only understood the excitement around it. The rush. The feeling of suddenly belonging somewhere dangerous and thrilling at the same time.
It made her feel awake.
Important.
Fast.
For a while, it felt fun.
That’s the cruel thing about addiction in the beginning — it rarely introduces itself as destruction. It arrives smiling. Laughing. Making you feel invincible before it slowly teaches your body how to beg for more.
Jessica started craving it quicker than she ever expected.
Soon came the lies.
Where she was going.
Who she was with.
Why she disappeared for hours.
Why her moods changed so fast.
Cocaine turned into cocaine mixed with weed. Weed turned into chasing stronger highs. Stronger escapes. Stronger ways to silence herself.
Then came meth.
Years disappeared inside that drug.
Days blurred together. Nights stopped mattering. Sleep became optional. Food became forgettable. Her mind raced endlessly while her body slowly started falling apart beneath her.
The loud, adventurous little girl from before was still in there somewhere.
But she was getting harder to find.
By the time needles entered her life, Jessica barely recognized herself anymore. Addiction had stopped being exciting years ago. Now it was survival. A cycle of sickness, desperation, and chasing relief for a body that no longer knew how to exist without chemicals inside it.
And then came Raymond.
Raymond wasn’t the beginning of her downfall.
But he poured gasoline on it.
He entered her life like chaos disguised as love. Manipulation disguised as protection. He introduced her to c***k cocaine and fed her meth like it was normal, like destroying themselves together somehow counted as connection.
It didn’t.
He pulled her deeper into a world she was already struggling to escape. The fights became louder. The nights became darker. The drugs became heavier.
Jessica was no longer just experimenting.
She was drowning.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep down… she knew it.
- Writer
