“Jeez, how old’re you, kid?” the clerk asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sixteen,” Blaise lied.
The man examined Blaise’s face and shook his head. “Either you’re a late bloomer or a liar, and either way, there ain’t no way I’m selling to a minor.”
Blaise glared at the man. “Fuck you! I need to smoke!”
The man frowned. “You look familiar… Say, ain’t you that Dufour kid?”
Blaise nodded. “I’ll bribe you if that’s what it takes for you to sell me cigarettes.”
The man shook his head. “I ain’t getting fired over selling cigs to a kid. Go on, get outta here, kid.”
Blaise sighed. He didn’t want to cause a scene without even buying the cigs.
“Fuck you,” he said one more time, and he left.
He knew another place to get some. He knew a few people he could threaten with unemployment. Weaponizing his parents wealth was always less destructive than his flames. Especially since he’d never actually had to go through with it.
Twenty minutes later, Blaise exited a nearby alley, three packs of cigarettes in his pocket, stolen from a teen whose parents were directly employed by the Dufours.
Blaise wandered for a while. He wasn’t walking with a destination in mind, but soon he found himself at a public park his sister had brought him to a lot before she left. He took out one cigarette and held it for a moment, examining it. He lifted the cigarette to his lips and tapped the other end with his free hand. He let out a single spark, lighting it.
He inhaled deeply… and coughed.
“Shit,” he wheezed. “Why the fuck do people even smoke?”
Still, he forced himself not to give up yet. He could handle the burning sensation in his throat. He could handle the heat in his lungs. He didn’t care that smoking would shorten his lifespan. If death were to come for him tomorrow, he would have no regrets.
“To hell with all the good memories I’ve had here,” he said hoarsely.
And now he was angry about the past.
He glared at the tree he once got stuck in. Clarissa had climbed up after him— not to help him down, but to keep him company.
He looked at the wall he and Clarissa had thrown buckets of paint at.
Then at the public garden he and Clarissa had secretly snuck extra seeds to.
“Why can’t I just forget about you?!” Blaise shouted. A squirrel scampered away at the sudden noise, but Blaise didn’t notice it. “I hate you, Clarissa!”
He imagined her face, her apologetic smile, and it made him furious. How could he ever forgive her? He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
His eyes glowed, and before he knew it, he had his flames ready, flickering brightly in his hand. He was moments away from letting loose.
He coughed again, lasting longer this time, and the pain shocked him enough that the fireball went out.
I can handle it, he told himself. I can handle it.
He repeated it in his head, like a mantra, but he couldn’t take it. He let the cigarette fall from his mouth and stamped out the flame before anything caught fire.
He considered throwing out the rest of the cigs, but kept them. He didn’t have the energy to deal with them, and he went home, sneaking up into his room through the open window.
It was only a few days before he gave smoking another go. And he just kept smoking. He kept it a secret from his parents for a few months, but then he stopped caring. They wouldn’t hurt him physically. They were too afraid of his powers to lay a hand on him.