The Lingering Smoke From My Mother’s Cigarette.
Mark McConville
“Mild as May” Marlboro advertisement. source: tobacco exhibits
I never ridiculed the woman outside the public house in a small town lacking spirit and atmosphere. I let her smoke; I let her inhale the toxins; the tar ingraining her blackened lungs. These times were precious enough, so why should I have been the one to dampen her ritual? She peaked at fifty cigarettes a day, confirming that she didn’t care about her health and the cough, which frightened me. She’d light one, and then she’d light one again in this monotonous and unhealthy loop. This loop had become overkill, and her habit escalated, propelling to an almighty level.
Observing her smoke, a glint in her eye would appear, and then the restlessness in her heart often dissipated for a slender interval. The noticeable anxiety was contained and she’d stop trembling. Her nerves were shredded by the depressive moments, but being frozen in this moment of bliss made her feel life brushing against her for all the right reasons. Then, as the smoke ventured off into the air, she’d felt threatened by her own self-deprecation.
Self-loathing and isolation had become commonplace as I sat beside her as she lay in bed. A bed in which the mattress hadn’t held its shape. It was sunken; it had no comforting elements, but it was her sanctuary, a rough board, holding her, straining her back. I’d tell her to rise, be about, paint nice pictures in her head, trap the rot and silence the voices. It wasn’t as easy as that, she said. Everything in her head was black, rotted to the core, matted in tired thoughts and itching impulses.
Hours would form into days as she lay weeping. Carrying these tears as if they were weights. I’d leave her and would venture into my room, hoping she’d halt the emotional breakdowns. This wasn’t the case, and I’d feel guilty, as if I packed her brain with unwanted noises and unrestrained voices, heightened reverberations. Playing my games console often helped me relax into a comfortable state, shooting enemies and pulverizing them helped me escape the niggling feelings brought on by the curse with which she’d been inflicted.
She would leave her trusty bed and sit on a chair facing the television, smoking and drinking coffee, dreaming and dreaming, picking her fingers and staring into the void. I viewed her mannerisms as odd. I was a young boy, naturally curious and lonely, troubled and vulnerable to the bright lights of society.
Time moved on fast and my memories weren’t clear. They had become blotched, overtook by my own depressive compulsions. But, occasionally, flashes of orange interfered my mind. Thick, orange walls. These walls held together truths and a place which people didn’t talk about. The woman, who I loved, who I tried to aid in her most grave days, surrendered to a place god would never approve of. A building blistered by electric volts, a structure caught up in old-fashioned ways.
I remember the orange walls, they’re instilled like pillars in my mind. The entrance, the waiting room, so vague, so basic, so generic. It had become infamous, an image deeply embedded. And I was a young boy, not mesmerized by a mental institution, but deeply scarred by it. I’d often feel itchy and dirty sitting in the visiting area. It was as if invisible spiders were crawling up my arms.
Alarmed by it, I’d close my eyes to the people chatting. I would crave to crawl into my mind and make a bed, a soft illusion of hope. These people scared me, they’d look despondent, their eyes weren’t big or bright, they were emotionless. And when she’d sit in front of us, begging to be released by the shackles, the days under lock and key, we’d feel our hearts linger in our throats.
My grandfather comforted her in the dark days. He’d believe in her. His motto was to drive forward and to never ponder. Although this motto struck home, she’d lapse, she’d see splinters in that source of inspiration. I would try to spark a conversation to support her with how I developed as a person, but she’d be too dejected. Despair had become a thorn in her side.
Those days were frightening. Ghosts must have played their part in that place, phantoms of pain. But, as I left on those days, I’d kiss her, I’d whisper, ‘’you’re going to be okay,’’ in her ear. She’d say love you back with no push, but with relevant vigor. Throughout the visit she’d be lacking spirit or fight, but at the end she would still offer me warmth and attention. I would have loved to have frozen her rare smile.
Going home, my dreams again departed into a pessimistic area. I never felt rejuvenated after seeing her, I was profoundly disappointed that she had to endure that endless prodding of her fragile mind. Shock treatment was a common procedure, medication altered these patients, and hope hit an impenetrable barricade.
Yes, the light did flicker into the darkness. She’d come home and feel the fresh air hit her. At moments she’d feel fully alive, happy, composed, revitalized. Her existence seemed relevant and worthwhile. She’d think she was a changed woman, with a pure mind. It wouldn’t last. The terror had become too far gone, the torment far too bent and buried.
A morning, the sun had risen, a boy concerned, two boys concerned. My brother woke me up from a dream, an optimistic flurry of hope. His mood seemed broken, and his eyes were wet. He uttered the words: “I think there is something wrong.” I removed the cover from my naked legs and walked with him up the stairs.
I knew straight away. The optimism had become a shattered mess. She lay there cold to the touch, blue to the eyes. My brother quickly got dressed and scattered as the pain ingrained itself into his young mind and body. I stood, weeping to the clock as it struck 9 a.m.
She was dead for hours, taken when the darkness shrouded the natural light. Her eyes were closed, her spirit pulled from her. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it painful for her. To me, she lay peacefully.
Peace was foreign to this disenchanted woman, as she battled through sickness for years. Her hurt wasn’t documented enough, she had gone through horrendous heartache, sipping her coffee and smoking a cigarette to try to dismount from the summit of misery.
Forty-four years on a planet. Forty-four years of yearning. But this woman had four children, and the four children adored the bones of her.
And she adored the bones of us…
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. He also likes to write dark fiction and a plethora of his stories have been published by Bristol Noir. His debut poetry chapbook is slated for release in October 2021. It will be published by Close To The Bone. @writer1990mark