Dr. Blacklung, I Presume?, Part 18

Dr. Blacklung, I Presume
By:  slimv

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Chapter 18:  The Betrayal
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Joan poured a glass of wine and lit a cigarette, chasing the puff of smoke
with a swish of the wine.  She preferred her wine cold unless of course it
was Bordeaux.  But she hadn't planned ahead and warm wine was better than no
wine.  At this point she didn't care about the fragrance of the bouquet
against her pallet.  All she cared about was losing enough inhibition to get
through tonight with her son.

She lifted the cigarette to her lips and pulled diligently on the filter.
The smoke felt hot against the tip of her tongue.  Her mouth opened
instinctively as she removed the cigarette.  She considered the idea of
blowing the smoke out without inhaling.  The thought amused her as she had
thought of it often.  She was powerless over the instinct to inhale and
allowed her self to succumb.

She closed her lips and experienced the smoke's journey as it passed her raw
throat making its way to her waiting lungs.  There was nothing pleasant about
the pain yet it excited her in a way that she couldn't comprehend.

She remembered a time in her life when she was much younger that she smoked
for the mere pleasure and pride that the habit provided.  She thought of this
as she held the smoke in her lungs refusing to give it up to the air in the
room.

Where was the pleasure now?  Where was the pride?  What had she done to her
self and what was she doing now?

She envisioned how the cilia on the lining of her lungs must look like as
they struggled to perform their task.  How helpless they must feel she
thought as they lay drowning in the sticky black sediment of tar.  Poor
cilia.  And did they miss her daughter?  Did they ever wonder what had become
of the precious tumor she had given birth to?  Did they ever think of
Cecilia?  The thought of losing her unborn lesion infused her with anger and
remorse.  She allowed the smoke in her lungs to leave.  There was no mercy in
her actions- only necessity and she quickly replaced the expelled smoke with
a fresh supply of toxins.

The straight line on her face, under her nose, turned up in a smile as she
amused her self with thoughts of her tortured cilia.  Let them pay for not
watching over her baby.  Let them drown in an ocean of sticky black tar.

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Deep in the abyss of her chest, a thick gray cloud swirled across her lung's
lining kissing its walls with hot fury.  Her lungs had withstood stood such
repeated attacks for years.  They were dark and devoid of life.  There had
been a time, years ago, when the lining of its walls had been pink and full
of life.  The cilia waved like tall pine trees with each gentle fresh bre ath
of air that entered the lungs.

And then the fog came.  It was scary at first.  The pulmonary muscle had
never experienced such a swirling beast of toxins and reacted with violent
protest, doing all in its power and nature to defend itself from the stinking
formless beast that had entered without invitation.

In those days her lungs were mighty and proud as they carried rivers of fresh
oxygen to the regions beyond.  Life was easy back then.  An occasional blast
of car exhaust, a crumb of bread that lost its way, these were the only
uninvited visitors it had been required to contend with and they were no
match for their strength and agility.  

They dealt the with gray storm the way they had always dealt with things from
the outside world that had no business within it's paradise.  The cilia
sprang to life doing battle with the toxins, catching them in their hairy
claws.  And her lungs repelled the rest as they shook violently giving
warning to the brain that whatever had breeched the security of its reason
was not a good thing and was unwelcome in their pristine pink home.

Unbeknownst to her lungs, the smoggy fiend had been introduced willingly with
an open-ended invitation.  Get used to it and deal with it said the brain to
the lungs.  The lungs cried at the brain's betrayal.

At first they tried to reason with the brain.  You need us said the lungs.
Without us you are nothing.  You will dry up and cease to exist.  The brain
listened to the lung's pleas and assured them that all was well and in hand.

The lungs listened as the brain explained the larger picture.  You'll get
used to it promised the brain.  Don't fight it.  There will come a time when
you will enjoy and crave the presence of the smoky visitor.  Your
apprehension and disgust will pass and you will begin to feel the beauty and
love that I see.

The brain explained how it felt when it saw 12-year-old Joan holding a
cigarette as she admired her self in the mirror.  The lungs l istened as the
brain described how beautiful her body looked smoking and what an important
job it had to make sure this happened for Joan.  She must become a smoker
said the brain to the lungs.  And the lungs understood and took the brain at
its word.

It was messy at first and the lungs were physically uncomfortable in the
presence of the smoke but they allowed it to enter and leave unimpeded.
There was the occasional cough of revolt but they were few and far between.

The lungs began to relax and look forward to the smoke.  The brain was right.
The smoke had become its friend.  How could something that felt so good be
bad?  The cilia would have begged to differ but they had become paralyzed by
the smoke.  Not that it was bad, but something was amiss.  The tar from the
smoke began to weight them down but it was nothing they couldn't handle or so
they thought.  After all, what business did the cilia have arguing with
either the lungs or the brain?  They relaxed in the smok e and gradually fell
asleep in a deep slumber.

The lungs shed a tear of mucus as they considered the brain's betrayal and
braced for the next puff of smoke.  The brain had sacrificed health for
beauty- a small price to pay according to the brain.  

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