I recently restarted my occasional smoking habit. Some days after, my psychology professor asked us all to write a story from the perspective of an object. I didn’t have much time to complete the task, or much brainpower to devote to it, so I just picked a cigarette as my object. The result was rather nice (if a bit over-flowery), so I’m posting it here for you guys.
Consciousness, if what I felt could be called that, was from the moment he took me out and held me in his hands. Yes, I had been created long before then. Yes, I might have been formed and shaped by other hands, real and metallic, and I spent the majority of my life, if it could be called that, inert and dead in a cold box. But the moment he brought me out into the sparkling world, that was the moment I truly began existing.
I knew then, from the tremor in his hand as he gently caressed me, what it was like to be adored, to be craved, to be loved. When he held me, his soft hands cradling my form, I knew then that I would sacrifice myself entirely to become one with him, to become a part of him, in service of my desire and his addiction.
But oh! That pleasure and pain should have to be such close sisters of one another! When he first brought me to his lips and I could feel them encircle me, it was a joy that I could barely endure. For a few moments, I lingered there, suspended in the brightly tinkling beauty of that height. I felt the warmth of his breath, his lips, I felt the pulse under his skin.
And then, came the explosion of pain. Along with it, a heady rush as a wind passed through my entire body. But I barely felt the latter as the pain overcame all other sensations, making me crazily dizzy, delirious. I was burning, burning in a great, fiery blaze.
And then came the ultimate destruction. As the wind rushed through me again and again, I felt myself disintegrate. My body was turning to ash. Yet in that disintegration, I knew that there was also a beautiful transformation. I felt myself being pulled into him, become part of him, part of his very makeup.
I felt myself penetrate his body, felt myself cling to and transform the very cells of his existence, coat and cover the part of him that was most important. I felt particles of myself enter his bloodstream, rush through his heart and head. I became part of his life, inextricably, immutably.
There were respites, when he took me away from him, though I was still poised with elegance between his fingers. It was hard for me to distinguish what was the worse torture, because in the respites I only longed to be back between his lips, even if that meant a swifter ending. The torture of being burnt alive was less than the torture of being parted from him.
In the final few moments of my life, my headiness grew. I knew that as I grew smaller and my end drew near, he too felt the heat that ravaged my body. As he took the last pull and I released myself into unconsciousness, I could feel the pain subside and only joy remain. I was finished, but my love for him would live on, lingering in his body, a neoplasm of adoration.