Sorry it's not about zombies or vampires. If you have questions about what's going on in this story, just ask; it seems a lot of people don't quite get it the first time reading through.
As you stand in the middle of the street, staring in disbelief at the wreckage that was once your home, you can't help but yearn to tell your wife that everything will be okay. The firefighters on the scene are unsure of how your house took to the sky in a million directions, but the nausea building in your throat gives you an idea of just what happened.
"Freddy," your wife, Rebecca, mumbled your name quietly into your ear, she was looking for that comfort that only you could give to her.
You don't respond to her, you really don't even hear her. Instead you pull through the hug she had around your right arm and walk closer to the smoldering piles of your life, being careful not to break the perimeter created by the local police.
You could really use a cigarette, but you're fresh out. You wave your hand to catch the attention of one of the officers still on the scene. Explaining that it's your house the crowd is watching, you ask him if he or any of the other officers have a smoke you can bum; you could really use one right now.
"Yeah, man, let me see what I can get for you. Just have a seat on the curb over there," he nods towards the side of the street that isn't being illuminated by a quickly dying fire. You comply and wait diligently for your cigarette while peering deeper at your life laid out all over your carefully tended lawn.
"You shouldn't be smoking, Fred," Rebecca said in that tone that made you want to change the world.
"I know, honey, I really shouldn't, but this is just one of those situations that I just gotta burn for a bit. Stress. You know."
You took her hand into yours and kissed it gently, but she just stared at you. You felt like an idiot but ignited the cigarette anyway. In response to her silence you quipped, "Shit, just let me have this cigarette," you chuckled, then borrowed a phrase from an old friend, "don't look at me in that tone!"
You could tell she was fighting a smile, but she then added, "You have to think about our future together, you have to live a long life for our kids. Smoking won't help that, Freddy. Anyway, I hate how it feels when I breathe in your smoke."
You look up at your house and can smell the cooked insides of it. The smell reminds you of camping; the nausea pitted in your stomach begins to rise again.
The officer returns with a beat up pack of cigarettes. Holding the pack out to you, he says, "Williams said to just give you the rest of his pack, here you go."
You take the slightly crushed box into your hand and thank the officer. It's not your brand, but any nicotine at this point will do. You didn't notice it before, but when you hold the box up to pull out a smoke, you stop for a moment and watch the intense trembling coursing over your hands. You can now consciously feel it over your whole body. After inhaling deeply in a feeble attempt to calm your nerves, you pull out a cigarette, put it to your lips and reach into your pocket for the cheap plastic lighter you always carry with you. You have difficulty lighting the cigarette, but finally it takes the flame; the initial inhale tastes like your early twenties, it smells like the hole in the wall you used to drink light beers at until 2 a.m. on Friday nights.
You overhear some yelling from a firefighter, something about the source of a fire, something more about cutting off a line. Putting the cigarette in your mouth, you stretch your legs out from the curb, put your hands on the sidewalk and stretch your head back until you're looking at the sky. You try to lean your head back far enough to just see stars, but the smoke from your house still invades your view. A tear welled in your eye finally releases itself and rolls down the side of your face, toward the top of your ear.
In an attempt to get comfortable, you rolled onto your side and placed your head into Rebecca's lap. She ran her hand through your hair until she seemingly found a spot she really enjoyed and began twirling it in her fingers. You could already feel the tears subsiding. She knew how distressed you were and she tried her hardest to take your mind off of reality.
Rebecca never quite understood that just holding her helped to put you at ease, so she spoke of trivial things; constellations were her favorite topic, especially late in the evening like that night. You grunted affirmative noises at the right spots, and even though you weren't really listening to what she was saying, her voice alone made you forget about the terrible event that had occurred that day.
You lean forward and put your arms on your knees, the cigarette in your mouth has all but turned to ashes. You spit it out and crush it with your heel while simultaneously pulling another out of the pack. You light this cigarette as quickly as possible and inhale the addiction.
