Cigaretten
Another short fiction story that I wrote some time ago
Fiction
I sat there. The memories flowing back to me, it always surprises me how much you're able to remember, really. You know, looking out there, you don't see any mountains, or lakes, or whatever picturesque shit I'd usually see when I was a kid. Living rurally was so great, eh? Anyways, that's not what I see here at least. I mean, a café's great and all, but I'm just sitting here on the curb looking out on a parking lot. It isn't exactly Wien, but sugary buns and some milk-coffee is great no matter what gutter you're looking at. It reminds me. There she sat, my mother. You know, I never like how she complains, or hugs, or laughs, or smokes.
"Mammaaa, du vet du issje burde røykæ, saaaant?" I said. "En vakker dag, skal eg slutte, en vakker dag" she says while she laughs. Farmor decides to chime in "Neei eg vett no at du meiner bra med da du seie, men du vett no me gjer no som me vil, me. Du e eit lita badn, vett du, du ha'kkje noko du ska seia." Farfar seems to agree. Looking back at it, didn't he cough a bit? Yeah, let's add that. He coughs a bit, but that's all that.
I sat there, and here she comes. "Here's your schnizeduzel with extra cream". Wow, my favorite (lies)!. I sorta have a crush on the waiter maybe, she looks so cool. She's got black hair, a tough look, and a mysterious history that would probably take way too much time for future me to define. Some day I gotta ask her out (I never did). I remember seeing her for the first time, it wasn't here, it was somewhere else. Where? I don't know, somewhere else. Anyways, she was smoking right, and I didn't really like it. I've seen it kill people, like farfar for instance. It feels wrong, she's so cool, she's so beautiful, but you know she smokes so there's gotta be something wrong with her, right? You know thinking about farfar, I haven't had a schnizeduzel in quite some time. I remember last time I ate one was at his funeral. I'd say it was a pleasant affair, but it really wasn't. I'm sitting here, right?, in this church, and if you see over there, you see my parents. They're smoking, they're wearing work-clothes, and they're being very loud. Everyone else in the church is wearing suits and ties and crying and whatnot, though I gotta admit I don't recognise any of the other faces. The guy in front of me seems pleasant enough really. He's got 6 eyes, a mouth on the back of his head filled with fangs. I hear he's a good family-father though, so he's good in my book. Wait, what? He didn't have 6 eyes, only 5, I think, or whatever. I don't really care.
I sat there, unable to scream, unable to think. I'm looking at myself. Is it real? What is this memory? In this memory, I'm sitting in a café, at a curb, looking out at a car park. Cecilie's there for some reason, but I don't know why. I mean, I guess it's her, but she's changing, liquid? not quite real. Is it even me I'm seeing? If it is, I don't like what I'm seeing. In front of that me I see, there's a pack. Why would that me have cigarettes there? I hate them, they're bad, they're dangerous. I want to scream, I want to think, I want to change. No, you fucking bastard, don't do what I think you're about to
So, you know, I'm sitting here, and this is quite nice. Again, it isn't Wien, but it's nice. You know, I remember the first time I took a smoke. I told my dad, he shouldn't smoke. In response, he gave me, a 6 year old, a cigarette, and told me to whip it. It wasn't pleasant, I think? Anyways, I'd like to experience that again.
So, I took out a cigarette, I flicked it, did I suck on it? No, I think I inhaled on it.