I have this recurring dream.
I'm sitting on a half-collapsed sofa in a house, a drink I didn't make in hand. I bend the plastic sides inwards, until I'm sure that they must crack, or the alcohol spill over the brim onto the grubby carpet. The throbbing base of too-loud music vibrates through everything around me. A girl in a short skirt topples over the other end of the dilapidated couch, her legs flying up over the arm, and I move my cup quickly out of the way as her head lands in my lap. She arches her back and laughs in drunken exuberance. She's dropped her bottle and the beer is fouling the carpet further. But I can't pick it up. Not without crushing her face into my stomach as I lean forwards. I don't know why I care. It's not my carpet. I don't even know whose house it is. Or whose party.
She takes a drag from her half-smoked cigarette, before peering up at me and offering me her fag. I take it from her and set it to my lips and inhale, long and deep. And this is when I know it's a dream, as opposed to some drunken party haze. Because you see, I don't smoke.
Someone grabs her hand and she's led back into the other room to resume dancing-her skirt now riding up at the back, showing too much un-firm thigh and too-tight underwear. She leaves me with her cigarette and nowhere to put it out. Now I have to finish it. But I don't smoke.
The smoke feels good as it gently burns my lungs from the inside and then billows in front of me as I exhale. Like a living automaton.
But I don't smoke.
I wait until I can taste the filter burning, before I stub the butt of it out on my shoe, making sure it really is out before setting it on the carpet, by the edge of the sofa, out of the way. There's a shifting of weight as someone else sits on the couch. I get ready to explain to the girl why I'm not interested. But it's not her. It's... him. I was hoping he wouldn't be here. I haven't seen him since...
"I thought you didn't smoke," he says.
"I don't," I tell him. And it's true.
My fingers smell like tobacco when they come too near my face, so I dip them in my drink. Maybe the alcohol will clean them.
Suddenly his leg is pressing against mine. Just gently. Is it an accident? But the sofa is so large. I smell my fingers again. It didn't work. Fuck. I don't press back, but I don't move my leg either. What does he want? I take a sip of my drink. Now it tastes of cigarettes. Great. He presses his leg harder into mine, and then I get up quickly, announcing that I need a new drink.
I can feel his eyes boring into my back, visually raping me.
For once, the press of sweaty bodies is welcome, because they block me from his view as I force myself into the other room, making my way to the kitchen. I make myself the drink this time. But I don't really want it.
There's a pack of smokes abandoned on the counter, and I steal one, lighting up with the Zippo that's lying nearby. But I don't smoke.
I feel suddenly very claustrophobic and the thuddering music doesn't help. I need to get out, so I raise my cup and cigarette in one hand above my shoulder and move back into the constriction of drunken adolescents. I pull various hands off my ass as I worm through. And then just at the edge of the crowd someone stops me.
"Hey, sexy bum," he slurs, or maybe it's something else. I don't know him. His chin juts threateningly, as if it's planning to pierce one of my eyes. I smile and firmly take his hand off of my waist and slip away.
I sigh as I slide the door closed. The night is chill, but pleasant after the oppressive heat inside and deafeningly silent after the loud music. The ash from my cigarette is building up and I flick it away before it can fall and spoil another drink. I take a long pull and exhale the thick pollutant. But I don't smoke.
There's a long stretch of grass and then a brick ledge. Eventually I'm sitting, legs dangling off the ledge, a rolling hill falls out under my feet, and I finish my fag before flicking it off the edge. The glowing ember soars and then drops, disappearing into the night. I don't smoke though.
The music suddenly overflows from the house like a tidal wave of audible chaos. I hear someone retching followed by the gush of liquid. It repeats a few times and then a groan and silence.
Footsteps on the brick ledge and then someone sits besides me. I don't need to turn my head to see who it is. I already know. His hand appears before me, offering an open pack and I tell him:
"I don't smoke," but take one anyway.
"Yeah, me neither," he says sarcastically,
I repeat. "No, I really don't smoke." He doesn't get it.
We sit smoking, feet dangling.
And then suddenly his lips are pressed against mine. His hot breath is acrid with and his tongue too forceful. I know my mouth must taste the same. But I don't smoke. I see myself pushing him off me to watch him topple off the ledge and roll down the hill, tumbling through the brush to hit the road far below. Instead, he pushes me back onto the grass, our lips pressing hungrily. We roll; the dew already thick on the grass stains our backs and limbs until we're both cold and wet and shivering-with excitement or from the cold I can't tell.
Then I feel the burn in my fingers. I've let the cigarette burn too long, and flick it away over the edge after its predecessor. He's still sitting next to me, leaning back and looking out over the darkened valley, his leg is against mine again. I stiffen and sit very still. What am I meant to do? He lifts a hand and grazes his nails up my arm. I try not to shiver or let my body betray me. But that doesn't stop him from knowing. He slips his hand across my thigh. I quickly halt its process with my own hand, but he's stronger than me, and soon pushes to his goal anyway. I draw a breath. I don't want this. I mean, I do. But not with him.
He takes my hand and lays it on his lap. I feel his heat. I don't move my hand away, just let it sit there. If I don't do it, I tell myself, there's nothing wrong with it. So he takes my hand and wraps my fingers around him himself. He does the same to me and I shudder at the feeling. Someone opens the sliding door to the house and he jerks his hand out of my lap. I do the same. Saved. Sort of.
He gets up and moves inside, leaving me on the edge, feeling like I'm going to slip off and fall...
After a while I down my drink and then move inside myself. I need to pee. Why didn't I just go off the ledge? Too many people at windows. I find the bathroom and I'm already going in before I realize he's found me again and he's slipped in behind me. "Uhh," I say, lamely, "I'm gonna' use the toilet."
He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't leave either. He just locks the door and then leans against it. I turn my back to him so he can't see, and then do my business. I haven't realized how badly I needed to go until then, and I sigh as I feel my bladder slowly deflate. I zip up and then step back from the john, encountering a body behind me. I go rigid as he slips his hands down my waist to meet at my abdomen. He starts to slip his hands inside my pants and I turn quickly, preventing him from his goal, but putting my face before his. I can still smell the smoke on his breath-or maybe it's mine, bouncing off his face. He grabs my head with his hands and once more, he's pushing his tongue into my mouth.
I step away from him, slipping out of his grasp and out the door before he can stop me. I haven't even washed my hands. I need a cigarette. But I don't smoke.
The party is winding down now. Rumors that the cops were coming had helped. My designated driver is wasted and going home with someone else. He's standing there, by his car, looking at me. I don't want to go with him... but he's the only one going my way. I get in and he looks at me, a grin on his face. He tosses me his pack of smokes and his lighter and I put them in the glove box. I don't smoke.
We've only been driving for ten minutes before his hand is on my thigh again. What can I do? I can't get out now that we're moving. Soon he takes my hand, and keeping one hand firmly on the wheel, uses the other to guide mine to the top of his pants. I don't fight him. He's stronger than me. And he's driving. I don't want him to lose control of the car. My hand, guided by his slips under his waistband and already I can feel the heat coming from him. He guides my hand lower and I feel him. Like burning steel. I hold him, not moving. Not wanting to. But not daring to take my hand out. He lets go of my wrist, and then his hand is back at my groin, pushing inside my own pants to squeeze me. His arm is under mine, and as he starts to move his fist, my whole arm moves too. I'm just holding on at this point. He's doing it all. He is. Gradually his arm starts moving faster and faster, and then I explode in his fist. As soon as I do, I feel his sticky wetness coat my fingers and he moans out loud. There's a raccoon in the road ahead and he notices it too late. He swerves, there's a thud underneath us and then the car skids and plows into the reinforced bank of the hill.
We sit dazed, and then I take my hand out of his pants. I wipe it on my trouser leg and open his glove box. I take out a cigarette and the lighter with trembling hands and spark up. But I don't smoke. He hasn't moved. He turns and looks at me. His face is blank. "I... I need to get out." I say, and open my door. His hand only comes out of my pants as I stand. He doesn't even notice. He just looks at the crumpled hood of his car. I walk about ten paces from the car and take a drag from his cigarette. My hand is trembling so much I can hardly keep it in my mouth long enough. I run my empty hand through my hair. I tap the ash off of my fag and look down as I do. The cinders fall and touch a small trickle of liquid that's running down the road. I know what's happening before I even see it-and then the fire shoots up the stream of gasoline towards the car. I shout at him, but he doesn't see it. And then I'm flying backwards through the air as the car explodes. My head hits something-a tree maybe, or just a rock-and I can feel a wetness oozing across my scalp and down my neck. I look at my hand, somehow still holding the cigarette. It's burning still and I try to raise my hand to take a hit... but I don't smoke. My arm doesn't move. It knows I don't smoke.
And so the cigarette sits there, a glowing point of light even after everything else has fallen to darkness.
But I don't smoke.