Smoking Stories

This is the third part of the series, more parts are coming soon stay tuned!

• The smoking machine (part 1)
• The smoking machine (part 2)
• The smoking machine (part 4)
• The smoking machine (part 5)
• The smoking machine (part 6)
• The smoking machine (part 7)
• The smoking machine (part 8)

The first weeks after the pregnancy test were pure panic. Emma sat on the edge of the bed with the positive test still in her hand, staring at the two pink lines while her heart hammered. She was eighteen and carrying a baby, but her body was already drowning in nicotine from the stronger machine cartridges, the endless Marlboro Menthol 100s, and the mask she wore for hours every day. She knew what heavy smoking did to a baby. She had read the warnings online late at night when Daniel was asleep. Low birth weight, breathing problems, even worse things. The fear hit her like a cold wave. She pulled the mask off, switched the machine to standby, and immediately reached for her pack. Her fingers shook as she lit a Marlboro Menthol 100. She took a long, desperate drag, holding the smoke deep until her lungs burned, then exhaled a thick plume toward the ceiling. The rush helped for a moment, but the guilt crashed in right after. She stubbed it out half-finished and lit another one anyway. By the end of the day she had smoked nearly three full packs on top of the machine sessions, chain-lighting them faster than ever, the menthol taste mixing with the sour edge of her fear.

She needed to talk to someone. The next afternoon she drove to her mother’s house, the portable machine humming quietly in the passenger seat. Laura met her at the door with a Virginia Slims Menthol between her lips and a new smoking machine of her own now sitting on the living-room table. The doctor had prescribed it for her after she described how much she missed the constant fill. Laura’s eyes lit up when she saw Emma. “Come in, baby. You look like you need a smoke and a talk.”

Emma sat down, fitted her own mask on for a quick session, and let the warm smoke pour in while she tried to find the words. When she finally pulled the mask away she blurted it out. “Mom… I’m pregnant. And I can’t stop. The machine, the cigarettes, all of it. I’m going to hurt the baby.” Her voice cracked. Laura took a slow drag on her Virginia Slims Menthol, exhaled through her nose, and gave a small shrug. “I smoked straight through my whole pregnancy with you. Two packs a day, sometimes more. Kept the house full of smoke just like always. And look at you—you turned out fine. Healthy baby girl. Don’t panic yourself sick, Emma. Your body knows what it needs.”

The words should have calmed her. Instead they made the panic sharper. Emma went home that night and smoked even more. She kept the mask on for hours while she cried quietly, then tore it off to light Marlboro after Marlboro, pulling so hard the filters grew hot. Daniel held her afterward, stroking her hair while she breathed the thick smoke from the machine, but even his gentle words could not quiet the fear twisting inside her.

Two days later she made an appointment with the doctor. Daniel drove her, one hand on her thigh while she chain-smoked three Marlboros on the way. In the exam room she told the doctor everything—how terrified she was, how she could not imagine quitting cold, how the cravings were worse than ever now that a baby was growing inside her. The doctor listened, checked her scans, and spoke carefully. “You cannot quit completely, Emma. Sudden withdrawal would be far more dangerous for the baby than a controlled reduction. We’ll do this gradually. I’m prescribing new cartridges with lower nicotine levels. You’ll step down slowly over the weeks. And I strongly recommend dropping the cigarettes entirely. Use only the machine. The continuous delivery is cleaner for the baby than the combustion from cigarettes.”

Emma left the office with the new lower-nicotine cartridges and a heavy weight in her chest. That night she loaded the machine with the first milder formula. The smoke felt thinner, weaker. She kept the mask on all evening, but the familiar heavy rush never came. By midnight the withdrawal started creeping in. Her hands began to shake. A cold sweat broke out. The old edgy panic returned, sharper because she was pregnant. She tried to stay with the machine, breathing the lighter smoke for hours, but it was not enough. At two in the morning she slipped into the bathroom, pulled out a hidden pack of Marlboro Menthol 100s, and lit one with trembling fingers. The first deep drag felt like coming home. She held it long, moaned softly, and exhaled thick streams while tears ran down her cheeks. She smoked three in a row, then went back to the mask, ashamed but calmer.

The pattern repeated every day. She tried to follow the doctor’s plan—machine only, stepping down the nicotine—but the gesture of smoking was something she missed with an ache that went deeper than the nicotine itself. The feel of the filter between her lips, the click of the lighter, the way she could control each drag. The machine gave constant fill but no ritual. So she snuck cigarettes. Behind the apartment building during lunch breaks. Late at night when Daniel was asleep. Each time she told herself it would be the last, but the panic over the baby only made her smoke more. She would light one Marlboro Menthol 100 after another, pulling hard, chasing the burn she knew was bad for the tiny life inside her, then rush back to the machine to try to balance it out. Her cough grew wetter and deeper. She got short of breath even walking across the room. The yellow on her teeth and fingers darkened further. Still she kept the mask sealed to her face for most of the day, letting the lower-nic smoke pour in constantly while guilt and need warred inside her.

At her next ultrasound the technician paused, moved the wand again, and smiled. “Emma… it looks like you’re carrying twins.” Two heartbeats. Two little shapes on the screen. Emma stared, frozen. Twins. The fear doubled in an instant. She drove home in silence, then spent the evening with the mask on, smoking four Marlboros between sessions, the smoke curling around her while she whispered apologies to the babies growing inside her.

The months passed in a haze of smoke and struggle. Daniel stayed beside her every step. He watched her wear the mask for hours while she did laundry or cooked, his eyes dark with the same hunger even now. He encouraged the machine sessions, helped her change cartridges, and never complained when the apartment stayed thick with smoke. Laura visited often, her own machine now a permanent part of her routine, and the two women would sit together with masks on, sharing the quiet hum while Virginia Slims and Marlboros burned in the ashtrays between them. Emma’s belly grew round and heavy. The twins kicked hard, and every kick reminded her of the nicotine flowing through her blood to them. She cried often, then reached for the pack or the mask to quiet the tears.

The final weeks were the hardest. The doctor had her on the lowest cartridge strength now. The smoke felt thin and unsatisfying. Withdrawal clawed at her constantly. She suffered headaches, irritability that made her snap at Daniel, and a deep restless hunger that no amount of machine time could fill. She snuck more cigarettes than ever, hiding in the bathroom or on the balcony, lighting Marlboro Menthol 100s with desperate speed and pulling until the filters burned down. The ritual comforted her even as the guilt tore at her. She kept the mask on almost twenty-four hours a day now, only removing it to eat or to sneak a real cigarette. Her body was exhausted, her lungs heavy, but she could not stop.

Labor started on a quiet Tuesday morning. Emma woke with the mask still sealed to her face, the machine humming, when the first strong contraction hit. Daniel drove her to the hospital, the portable machine running in her lap the whole way. She kept it on through the early hours of labor, breathing the steady smoke between contractions, the menthol taste mixing with her sweat and fear. The delivery was fast and intense. Two tiny girls came into the world crying strong and healthy. The doctors checked them immediately. They were perfect—good weight, strong lungs, ten fingers and ten toes. But the blood tests showed what Emma already feared. Their nicotine levels were high, far higher than normal for newborns. The doctor explained it quietly: the constant exposure had passed through the placenta. The babies would need monitoring for withdrawal symptoms in the first days, but they were otherwise fine.

Emma lay in the hospital bed hours later, exhausted, a fresh nicotine patch on her arm because the hospital would not allow the machine in the room. Daniel sat beside her holding one of the twins while the other rested in the bassinet. She looked at their small faces, their tiny hands, and felt a wave of love so strong it hurt. Tears ran down her cheeks. She had carried them through months of thick smoke and constant cravings, and they were here, alive and breathing. The guilt was still there, heavy and dark, but so was the deep, familiar pull. When the nurse stepped out, Emma reached into the bag Daniel had packed and pulled out a single Marlboro Menthol 100. Her hands shook as she lit it with the lighter he had slipped in for her. She took a long, slow drag, held the smoke deep, and exhaled a thin stream toward the ceiling.

Daniel watched her with that same loving, hungry gaze. One of the twins stirred in his arms. Emma looked at her girls, then at the cigarette between her fingers, and felt the dark addiction wrap tighter around all three of them. She was a mother now, but the mask, the machine, and the Marlboros still called to her. The cravings had not left. They had only changed shape once more.

She took another drag, the menthol cool and familiar, and let the smoke curl around her new family. The beautiful, terrible pull had never been stronger.

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