This is the fifth 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 3)
- The smoking machine (part 4)
- The smoking machine (part 6)
- The smoking machine (part 7)
- The smoking machine (part 8)
Emma exhaled slowly, watching the thick smoke curl around her daughter’s masked face, and felt the dark addiction tighten its grip once more—this time across another generation.
The bedroom door stayed closed for nearly an hour. When it finally opened, Leslie stepped out first, the soft silicone mask now hanging around her neck like a necklace. A fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 burned between her yellow-stained fingers. Emma followed close behind, her own cigarette lit, the portable machine clipped to her belt so the steady flow of smoke kept her breathing easy. The house already smelled thicker than usual.
Allisson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, nose wrinkled. “What is that smell? It’s worse than normal. And why is the machine running upstairs? I thought you turned it off this morning, Mom.”
Leslie took a long drag right in front of her sister, cheeks hollowing, then blew a thick plume straight toward Allisson’s face. “Relax, golden girl. It’s just me.”
Allisson’s eyes went wide. She coughed once, waving the smoke away. “You’re… smoking? Like, actually smoking?”
Leslie shrugged and took another pull, holding the smoke deep before letting it roll out her nose in two slow streams. “Been doing it for months. Mom knows now. Feels good.”
Emma’s raspy voice cut in gently. “It’s true, honey. Leslie’s been using the machine too. She needs it. Just like me.”
Allisson stared at them both, face flushing with anger and disbelief. “This is insane. You’re fifteen, Leslie. You’re going to end up just like Mom—coughing all the time, barely able to walk across the room. And you’re encouraging her?” She turned to Emma, voice rising. “You’re her mother!”
Emma lit another Marlboro Menthol 100 from the end of her last one, the ritual smooth and automatic. “She was born with it in her blood, Allisson. Same as you were. Some of us just need it more.”
The argument exploded from there. Allisson shouted about the constant haze, the overflowing ashtrays, the way the whole house smelled like an ashtray even after she opened every window. Leslie snapped back that Allisson was stuck-up and didn’t understand what real cravings felt like. Emma tried to keep peace, but her voice was too rough and tired to cut through the yelling. Daniel came home in the middle of it, took one look at Leslie with the cigarette between her lips, and simply smiled. “Welcome to the club, kid.”
After that night Leslie stopped hiding. She smoked openly in every room. She would sit at the kitchen table with the mask on for hours, then pull it off just long enough to light a Marlboro Menthol 100 and chain-smoke three or four in a row. The portable machine stayed clipped to her belt or sitting beside her on the couch. Some mornings she didn’t even bother going to school. She told her parents she felt “too edgy” and stayed home instead, mask sealed to her face, smoking pack after pack while the machine hummed beside her. By afternoon her eyes were half-lidded with nicotine bliss, yellow fingers tapping ash into yet another overflowing tray.
The tensions with Allisson grew worse every day. Allisson tried to study in her room with the door shut and a fan running, but the smoke still seeped under the crack. She would come downstairs and find Leslie sprawled on the couch, mask on, a cigarette burning in one hand while she scrolled her phone with the other. “Can you at least do that in your own space?” Allisson would snap. Leslie would just lift the mask slightly, take a drag, and blow the smoke toward her sister. “It is my space. It’s the whole house.”
Emma watched the fights with a mix of guilt and quiet satisfaction. She and Leslie had grown closer in the last few months than they had ever been. They would sit together for hours—both with masks on, both chain-smoking Marlboro Menthol 100s between sessions—talking about cravings, about how the burn felt, about how nothing else quieted the anger the way nicotine did. Allisson noticed. She felt the distance growing between her and her mother. Emma used to ask about school projects or debate tournaments. Now she mostly asked if Allisson had seen Leslie’s new lighter or if she wanted to try just one puff “to see what it’s like.” Allisson refused every time, voice firm. “No, Mom. I’m not doing that. I’m not like you two.”
Three years later, the twins, Allisson and Leslie, celebrated their eighteenth birthday. The birthday was quiet—just the four of them in the hazy living room. Daniel handed Leslie her gift, a small wrapped box with a knowing smile. Emma, mask resting on her chest, raspy voice warm, said, “We got you something special, Leslie.”
Leslie tore the paper open. Inside was her own smoking machine—smaller than Emma’s but just as powerful, with a soft silicone mask and a starter box of the same high-nicotine cartridges Emma used. Leslie’s eyes lit up. She hugged her mother tight, then her father, then immediately plugged it in and fitted the mask over her face. The hum started. Thick smoke poured in. She moaned softly with relief and lit a fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 while the machine worked. “This is the best gift ever,” she said, voice already muffled behind the mask.
Allisson watched from the corner of the couch, arms tight across her chest. She said nothing, but her eyes were wet with frustration and something that felt dangerously close to jealousy. She received her gift as well, but the enthusiasm was not the same for the new sociology books she got.
The suggestions started the very next week.
One evening Allisson was trying to do homework at the kitchen table. Emma sat across from her, mask on, cigarette burning. Leslie lounged beside her with her new machine running. Emma pulled her mask down for a moment. “You look so tense lately, honey. Just one session with the machine would help. Or even a single cigarette. It’s not as scary as you think.”
Allisson shook her head hard. “No. I’m fine.”
Leslie laughed behind her mask. “Come on, sis. You’re the only one in the house who doesn’t get it. One drag won’t kill you.”
Allisson stood up, slammed her book shut, and left the room. “I said no.”
It happened again a few days later in the living room. Emma and Leslie were both masked, both smoking, the air thick and sweet with menthol. Leslie lifted her mask. “You’re always so wound up. Try it once while you’re watching TV. You might actually relax for five minutes.”
Allisson’s voice was sharp. “Stop asking. I’m never going to smoke. I don’t want to end up like you two.”
Emma’s raspy voice was gentle but insistent. “We just want you to feel better, baby. That’s all.”
Allisson resisted every time, but the pressure never stopped. The house stayed hazy. The ashtrays stayed full. Leslie skipped more school days than she attended, spending long afternoons on the couch with both the machine and a steady chain of Marlboro Menthol 100s. Emma’s health kept declining—she needed the full mask almost twenty-four hours a day now—but she still looked beautiful to Daniel, and to Leslie. The bond between mother and addicted daughter grew tighter while Allisson felt herself drifting further away.
One night, after Allisson had gone to bed early, Emma and Leslie sat together in the living room with their masks on. Leslie pulled hers down just enough to speak. “She’s never going to try it on her own. She’s too stubborn.”
Emma took a slow drag on her cigarette, then nodded. “I know. But she needs it. She was born with the same blood we have. She just fights it harder.”
Leslie’s eyes met her mother’s through the haze. “So what do we do?”
They made the plan quietly. They would wait until Allisson was in deep sleep. Emma still had the spare mask from her old portable unit. They would slip it over Allisson’s face while she slept, switch on a low setting with one of the milder cartridges, and let the steady smoke do its work. Just a few nights, they told each other. Enough to let her body remember what nicotine felt like. Enough to take the edge off her constant tension. Then maybe she would understand.
They waited until midnight on a Friday. Allisson had been asleep for two hours. Emma moved slowly, her own machine clipped to her belt so she could breathe. Leslie carried the spare mask and the small unit. They crept into the girls’ shared bedroom. Allisson lay on her back, breathing evenly, completely unaware. Leslie carefully placed the soft silicone mask over her sister’s mouth and nose. It sealed with a gentle click. Emma switched the machine on to its lowest setting. Thick, warm smoke began to flow steadily into Allisson’s lungs.
The two of them stood there for a long minute, watching. Allisson’s breathing changed—just slightly—taking the smoke deeper without waking. A tiny, unconscious sigh escaped her. Emma felt a twist of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by the familiar dark thrill. Leslie smiled behind her own mask.
They left the machine running and slipped out, closing the door softly.
Allisson woke the next morning, Leslie has waken up earlier to take the mask off. The machine had run all night on the low setting. She sat up fast. Her head felt fuzzy. Her stomach turned with a strange nausea that wouldn’t settle. She felt edgy, restless, like something was missing and she couldn’t name what it was. Her hands trembled just a little as she reached for her phone. She coughed once—dry and unfamiliar—and tasted something faintly sweet and chemical on her tongue.
She had no idea why she felt this way. She only knew the house smelled thicker than usual, her sister was already downstairs with the machine humming, and her mother’s raspy voice was calling everyone to breakfast.
Allisson stood up, still slightly nauseous, still strangely on edge, and walked downstairs without understanding that the first quiet thread of addiction had already begun to wrap around her.
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