Ifling myself upright in bed on this bright, beautiful morning, to violently cough up my right lung and possibly my left one as well. Gobs of phlegm form in my mouth, and I spit it out in a garbage can, thinking how great a cigarette would be right now, and how much this cough has ruined my life. Bronchitis struck a week ago, and my girlfriend, being the caring person that she is, told me to quit or she leaves. Just thinking about it makes me jittery and annoyed, so I turn on my coffee pot and stuff my mouth full of LifeSavers while it boils. People have told me that eating Lifesavers or chewing gum helps, but I can’t trick my brain into believing that cigarettes taste like cherry or tutti-frutti.

I chug down two cups of coffee and pack some for later, but my morning wake-up just isn’t the same no matter how hard I try. For the past three days, I haven’t been able to have my morning cigarette, the most coveted and important one of the day. This is the one that’s needed for me to clear my head, to function like a normal human being. Without it, I feel vague and spacey, no matter how many cups of coffee I drink. I try not to think of it as I leave for class.

Rick-a-tick-a-tick-a—

The nit-fit jitters show up as soon as I step outside the door and remember that I have nothing to smoke as I walk to class. My whole body slowly tenses up and suddenly I get a flash of irrational anger. My body almost shakes from the tenseness, and inside my head I just hear them over and over, like frantic maracas, Rick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a—

Most people don’t understand that once you start with two packs a day, it’s a lifestyle. You become known as the guy who always has a cigarette in his hand, who’s always outside puffing away after class, who’s found outside until midnight because he can’t smoke indoors and he’s bored. At this point, I’m mentally trained to pull one out when I see sunlight and trees. I can’t just stop, you might as well just ask me to stop breathing. No, this isn’t a simple habit to break; I’m going to need the fucking cavalry on this one.

Getting on campus doesn’t help. In my point of view, it looks like a fucking Smoker’s Day parade. Everyone seems to have a cigarette in their mouth, laughing and talking and enjoying a pleasant moment with the Marlboro Man. In the corner of my eye, all I see is plumes of smoke. The smell of menthols is making my mouth water. Rick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a—I spend a minute or so hacking up something and spit out another gob of phlegm on the sidewalk. I glance at it in disgust and power-walk to my class, stuffing three pieces of gum in my mouth.

Two classes later, I’m about to kill someone. I leave a class only to be bombarded by smiling people enjoying things I can’t have. I’m sick, I’m jittery from all the coffee, and all I want to do is chain-smoke for twenty four hours. Fuck that, I want to blow up a cigarette factory and just breathe in the wreckage. I want to walk into the middle of a field of tobacco, light it on fire and let it engulf me in delicious smoke. Those pictures everyone sees of cancer victims with missing jaws and holes in their throat—I want that. Receding gums, air tanks, voice boxes, I fucking WANT THAT.

Rick-a-tick-a-tickatickatickaticka—

I stuff the rest of my gum in my mouth and almost immediately start coughing, launching a wad six feet away from me and almost hitting a smoker in the process. Giving up on quelling the snakes, I grumble and start walking to English, my last class of the day. After this, I can hole myself up in my room, drink insane amounts of coffee and speak to no one. That sounds so good to me that I’m almost tempted to skip, but I shake myself out of it, reminding myself “Be cool, this isn’t that bad, don’t be a loser.” I try to subdue the snakes in my belly with another LifeSaver, but they still rattle on as I walked to class. Rick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a—

My cough damn near kills me when I sit down in my seat, a mouth full of phlegm that I can’t spit out almost choking me. The kids in my class look at me in concern, but I want them to mind their own business and start with class so I can get the hell out of here and not see anyone for a couple days. The teacher stands at the front of the room and announces that we will be reading a story in class. I leaf through for the story he wants us to read and stop after the first few lines. It’s a personal narrative of a man peacefully enjoying a morning cigarette.

Rick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickaticka—

My body erupts in a slew of coughs so violent that I press myself against my desk for leverage. I cough until I have no air, and then I find time to gasp only to keep on coughing. Phlegm flies out of my mouth without my control and my whole body shakes with the effort of coughing out my insides. From a distance I hear people’s yells of concern but I couldn’t care less. It feels like something huge is lodged in my throat, wiggling for freedom as I hack away.

Rickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickatickaticka—

Someone grabs me from behind and starts pushing hard at my stomach, bruising my ribs and forcing air out of my lungs. Whatever was in there finally slides out of my throat and whoever was holding me suddenly drops me. As I fall on the floor and gasp for air, the screams in the room sound different, but I’m too busy trying to breathe to wonder why. I blearily look around the room, gasping and wheezing as I see my fellow classmates climbing out windows and standing on desks. On the floor next to me is an angry rattlesnake, hissing and rattling at my face. I can’t help but laugh as the world starts to go black. I realize that I no longer care about cigarettes.

Maggie Anderson is a freshman?English major and a Literary writer for Generation.