Quit

I'm smoking and remembering. Here's what I'm remembering:

I was six years old and tied naked and freezing to a lonely fencepost in the middle of a field. It was midnight, or thereabouts. I was calling out for help, was failing to hold back the tears, was rubbing myself on the ground to scratch the sore area where my urine had dried.

Home was less than a mile away, but the lights were off and there was no moon: I could see nothing. Around me, the insects were at play. I felt the occasional bite on my exposed arms and the high pitched whine of the flying nasties.

Then, through the darkness, a small red speck appeared in the distance. I squinted, hopeful, never ceasing to rub myself against the ground. Never ceasing to blink, to clear the mist of tears from my eyes. Never ceasing to flinch when the shriek of bloodsuckers increased in pitch, ready for attack.

The red speck was flickering in the distance, growing closer, closer, closer. It was less than ten feet away when my father demanded: 'Well? Have you learned your lesson now?' By the time he'd led me inside, the red flicker of his cigarette had long since died.

Yes, I'm smoking and remembering. I think it's time I quit.