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>800 word story I had to write for my english class

Your lungs feel cold. It’s hard to describe to others, but you understand what you mean and that’s what matters. It’s hardest to explain to your wife and son, not the feeling cold but why you smoke. “It keeps me grounded when my thoughts become too much and start to lift me away.” Your wife hates that answer and your son just naively smiles with the belief that anything his dad does is good.

 

Your job provides no respite from the smoke, being a welder. And your horrible OHS habit of not turning on the exhaust fans allows the cadmium oxide fumes to linger in the air and on your tastebuds as you work. That is, when you can manage to, in-between the coughing fits that cripple your functionality as a human being. They’ve become so severe that you can’t drive anymore for risk of leaving the road. “You know I love you”, your wife tells you, but the necessitation for her to get up early and trek you across the city strains the relationship. Without her, there would be no work, no income for your family. Just the cold feeling in your lungs before you take another drag.

 

-

 

I sat in front of the television half watching, half coughing and, also squeezed in there, enjoying the smoky smells coming from the kitchen, where Hayley toiled away over dinner. From another room I could hear Julian banging some toys on his play table, oblivious to the woes of the world. He was old enough to talk but not old enough to say anything important. “Alright, it’s ready”, Hayley called. Julian and Hayley’s footsteps both grew nearer, culminating in them almost colliding as they appeared at the same door. Hayley staggered to avoid Julian at her feet, nearly dropping the tray of meat she carried. When she recovered and resumed bringing the food to the table, she planted her foot on top of one of Julian’s toy cars he had left lying around. In what felt like slow motion, I watched Hayley fall while still trying to hold dinner before eventually landing unnaturally on her hands.

 

I rushed to help her, coughing and staggering along the way. Hayley tried to stifle her cries of pain as I lifted her up, but couldn’t stifle the bones protruding equally from either wrist. Julian was trying to put the food back on the tray somewhere behind me. I brought Hayley into the kitchen and used the phone there to call an ambulance. The conversation was frequently interrupted by my coughing and cries of agony. An ambulance arrived shortly after I had finished getting the mess cleaned up from the floor. “I have to stay and look after my son”, I told the paramedics, “but I’ll call the hospital tomorrow morning Hay-Hay.” Despite the pain evident by the contortions of her face, she observantly replied “But how will I answer it?”. “Oh, yeah.” It was only later I realised how silly this was, that a nurse would obviously assist her in speaking with me.

 

I salvaged what was left of Hayley’s cooking to give to Julian before putting him to bed. As I tucked him in, he gazed at me and asked “is mum going to be better soon?”.  Wondering, hoping, he hadn’t seen the image of her wrist bones, I gently told him “she’ll be at the hospital for a little bit and then she can come home to get better.” I didn’t know if that satisfied him. All I knew is that I needed a smoke.  The warmth trickled down my throat and into my lungs, contrasted by the cold outside air on my skin. Without Hayley’s hands, I couldn’t get to work. The call to my boss to explain this only left me more anxious. “Look, you’re a good welder, and I like you, but if you can’t figure something out by next week I’ll have to replace you.”

 

Tears began to form, falling on my cigarette as if they were trying to extinguish it. Weeping is much more depressing when it’s interrupted by wheezing fits. The breeze blew my smoke and my hair back. Coughing sounds came from behind me, and as I wiped my face and turned around I saw Julian engulfed in my cloud of smoke. “Julian,” I sniffed, “what are you doing?” “I was checking to see if you were ok”, he wheezed. My crying intensified as I took in the image of my son, a hostage of my by-product. I didn’t want Hayley to have to drive me to work. I didn’t want Julian to see my weakness and self-wallowing. The cigarette extinguished itself on the rough concrete while I hugged Julian, alongside the pack I had also thrown to the ground in disgust.

Author's Note

The style of writing is intended to feel pretentious and arrogant, like the writing doesn't feel right but expects the reader to appreciate and understand why it is. Welcoming all comments and criticisms, first post on this website