It has become one of the most cliched concepts across all art forms. But what is so fascinating about smoking in literature?
Perhaps it has simply become that iconic action that foregrounds a shift in a character’s mental state: the psychological deterioration of our protagonist, or the need for a quiet break from reality that is only satisfied with a ciagrette perched on their lips.
A short story – I Know What Kills.
Once Charlie had moved in, Lewis knew that the apartment would receive a signature stench that no air freshener could hide.
Charlie took up smoking after their parents had died. He found comfort in the smoke’s thin, bony fingers that laced around him in a sort of sickening embrace, as he enjoyed the now familiar routine of the smoke engulfing him and his sorrows late at night. Charlie buried the grief of his parents at the back of his mind – or at least, he tried to. The remnants of the previous night’s misery seemed to seep from his pores leaving a trail of discolouration, weaving its way into the fibres of his clothes, individual strands of his blonde hair, sticking to his breath and stealing away his once youthful complexion.
Lewis would watch his twin brother wake in the middle of the afternoon, stumbling to the kitchen sink to replenish his thirst as the fourteen cigarette butts lay scattered on the stained wooden coffee table staring back at him. Observing that sprawled out body suddenly come back to life just long enough to light another cigarette. But some days, Lewis felt that they were taunting him, whispering to one another how he had failed as a brother, laughing at his stupidity for not reaching out to Charlie sooner.
“Turn that off, will you? Stupid people don’t know what they’re talking about, ‘smoking kills!’ I promise you; smoking has kept me alive. I know what kills.”
The television stopped working that day. Lewis thought it was a sign, the world telling him that he should quit, but Charlie thought it was a sign that Lewis should be taking more shifts at the pub.
“Get up, Char, it’s almost four-thirty. Maisy will be here at five. Take a shower — and for God’s sake, pick the ash off my couch!” snapped Lewis.
Staring out onto the street through the window, Lewis noticed Summer’s last breaths slowly seeping away, caught in the tight grip of Autumn’s newfound strength. It was draining life from the leaves that curled and withered into broken pieces. In many ways Lewis found this cycle comforting, there was a beginning and an end to things, the inevitability of life taking its course.
However, Lewis worried that Charlie’s season would never change, that he was trapped in the heart of an ongoing storm. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder if, for Charlie, the storm was the safest place to be.
‘Yes, I know, I know. I’m not going to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend, Lew.’ Charlie smirked.
Even with his back turned, Lewis knew exactly what Charlie was thinking but reminded himself that it wasn’t his fault. Maisy had ended things with Charlie three months before their parents died and long before the smoking started.
‘She’s not my girlfriend. She just cares about us. About you.’
Charlie sat up from the couch, pulled the sleeve of his grey jumper over his hand and wiped the table in one careless motion, rubbing the ash further into the dry wrinkles of his leather skin. Without another word, Charlie made his way into the bathroom, coming face to face with a stranger who has stolen his name and face.
All that remains, thought Charlie, a distant memory of his parents and those cigarette butts, whose voice echo eternally, never allowing another moment of silence.