The smoking area, tucked away at the far edge of the roof, funneled its haze skyward,
sparing the passersby below but choking the atmosphere above. Cigarette smoke curled into the
open air, thin spirals dissolving into the brightness. The air, bloated with warmth and fumes,
hung thick in the lungs, each breath like swallowing a hot toad. The non-believer was here,
gripping the bars of the fence, a ten-minute break finished twenty minutes ago.
He stared at the cigarette box, flipping the tab with his thumb. Up and down with
practiced ease, the paper crinkled with every pass, worn by this week’s stress. Each flick of his
thumb felt like a jarring reminder of how tired he was—tired of the heat, tired of the work, tired
of the same steps. Sweat crawled down his forehead like bees on a tree, and he leaned against the
railing, willing himself to breathe to only feel the burn of dry air in his lungs.
This would not soften the blow he was about to take. There was a sickening familiarity to
his routine—a deep, clogged breath before gagging up unrealistic expectations. He replayed
every conversation he had with his sister, every moment where his hand wasn’t extended enough.
She’d been trying so hard, yet every choice brought her closer to the edge; the very edge he
stood on right now. He flips open the box. Pressed the head of the cigarette to his lips. Ignited the
butt. Takes the step back into comfort.
The smoke no longer crawled his brain the way it had the first time. At least, that’s what
he told himself. Back then, it had ignited behind his eyes, curling in his throat like a hot wire. It
had seared his nerve endings, leaving now only a slow burn with each puff. Still, he dragged on
the cigarette, letting it smolder between his fingers. He lingered on the roof, carving in ten more
minutes in his break, staring at the glinting window and the vibrant billboards.
It had all been for nothing, the world ashed. Swallowed whole, his mind molded by
invisible hands, while freedoms buckled beneath polished shoes and upturned chins. What was
the point of believing the illusion of choice when all it ever echoed was suffering?
“Suffering does not come from free will, but because humanity fails to make
compassionate choices.”
His gaze moved to the glass of the building across from him; the sun reflected into his
eyes, blinding him to the figure behind the voice. The non-believer clicks his tongue. How does
free will matter where every day is a copy of the last? Where’s the comfort in answering the
same call, in walking the same loop until the floors wear thin? A ribbon of smoke slipped into
the non-believer’s peripheral vision. It curled in the air, wrapping around the breeze’s invisible
fingers before dissipating.
“You choose fleeting comfort every day.”
The non-believer huffed, his thumb returning to the rhythm of flicking the box, tearing
the lid on the first press up. He was done. His break had long been over. But…the non-believer
hadn’t gotten through the cigarette yet. He could linger, if not just for another huff.
Wasn’t that what his sister had? The ability to choose? But what of the consequences?
She blamed the conductor for slamming the train door in her face; or her charger had fallen
behind her bed in the night; or that the printers in her office were lacking toner? Those were
mistakes, situations that could happen to anyone. And now, her future was uncertain. It was
unfair to bind her failure to a few moments. But the stranger’s words hung there like mosquitoes
to a pond: she chose that. The non-believer’s eyes furrowed once more, fueling the headache
before letting it go again and taking a huff.
Another thick stream of smoke lingered too close to the non-believer’s ear. The warmth
of it brushed against his skin, a faint, stinging heat that settled on his cheek. His hand rose
instinctively to push the haze away, his fingers swatting at the air to dispel the burn that clung to
him. The sting of it wasn’t as sharp as the first time—then, it had felt like an assault. Now, he let
it linger, taking another breath, releasing rivers of gray coiling into the air.
“You have every right to perform your prescribed duties. Plug in numbers. Miss the train.
Fire the secretary. But you always choose something, willing or not.”
The non-believer huffed again, rolling his eyes. His thumb ripped the pack lid apart,
insisting on digging at the paper with his nail. His sister had chosen the company over
everything—and look where she ended up. At the bottom of the barrel, trying to lap up the
whiskey only to taste wood, all because someone stole the drink before her.
But did the non-believer understand? Wasn’t her boss capable of mercy, even amid his
sister’s errors? Were his sister’s missteps enough to reduce her to the sum of her mistakes? Why
should one choice be enough to change an entire life? The heat and questions beat on the
non-believer’s head, tightening his brow.
“Consequences tether to free will. There is no single seed that makes a person good or
evil, but of a field growing both. A man reaps what he sows.”
The non-believer leaned his head in his hands. This talk of responsibility and
consequences mixing in with the cigarette smell had only increased the intensity of his headache.
It was pulsing in his temple as if some Neanderthal was stoning his head. Paralyzed, trapped
between the growing end of his cigarette butt and the heat of the sun pounding his back; two
sources that he could never outrun or live without. The non-believer squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to block the light as smoke dances in the galaxy behind his eyelids. He sucked in, once,
twice, hoping the heat would push out of his lungs, only to feel embers in his throat.
“If you do not change direction now, you will end up where you are heading.”
The non-believer hears something drop behind him, light enough only to make the
slightest sound. He pulls away from his hands, swiping away the surrounding smoke. He
searched for the culprit, the cause of all his thoughts. But there was nothing, no swing of a door
or click of a knob. His eyes cast down to the ground, finding a single cigarette by his foot.
Unburned.
With a trembling hand, the non-believer picked up the cigarette. He thought of keeping it,
pressured to burn it. The one on his lip glowed close to its end. The end of his break. The end of
his limit. But he could start another. He could fill the road ahead with fleeting pleasure. There
was always more. Another stick. Another pack. Another choice.
But a cigarette, or two, or three, wouldn’t stop the helplessness in his lungs. The
non-believer pulls the cigarette from his lips, dropping it with the box and crushing it under his
foot. The smoke dragged itself from his throat and into the air, leaving behind a raw, blistered ash
along its wake.
Shaylee Gibbs is a marketer and the published author of The Sin and the Boy. As an avid reader, she believes that the best stories are the ones that refuse to let you look away and challenge your perceptions of what could be, rather than what are. You can find her on Instagram @shayleegibbs and on Facebook here https://www.facebook.com/shaylee.gibbs.2025
