Child Abuse, Tobacco Style.
For long time readers of my stories, you'll be aware that my mum's method of raising me and my brother was, how should I say, unconventional. Despite this, the lessons learned from her days bringing us up from the gutter still hold true, no matter how nuts they might seem.

For example...

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday, and much was made of the fact that I was now a teenager and rapidly ascending (or descending, depending on how you look at it) into adulthood.

Now, my mum was apparently an advocate of some kind of aversion therapy, and had already put me and my brother off drinking booze until the 'right time' (as she saw it) by letting us drink Colt 45 lager at an uncle's birthday and letting us learn our own lesson when we ended up pissed and sick and generally pretty shitty afterwards. I was 10, he was 8 (and him being the cocky show off of the family, downed a whole can without realising the horror ahead). Thus, I didn't touch another drop until years after, scared to death about what might happen to me.

Anyway - my 13th birthday. Well, to celebrate, my mum had decided to let me have a party, and so we'd gone to the supermarket in the afternoon to get the usual junk food and fizzy drink for such proceedings. For some reason though, she seemed to have a determined look in her eyes as we sauntered through the aisles of ASDA.

In addition, in an unusual step, she stopped off at the cigarette counter, and bought 10 Marlboro lights and Clipper lighter.

Odd, I thought... my mum doesn't smoke, neither did my stepdad, so I was certainly bewildered. But, as I was to find out, that was just the beginning.

When we got home, I was directed to the sofa, my mum called for my little bro (11 at the time) to sit next to me, and then the aversion therapy began.

She told us both to pick out a cigarette from the packet, light it, and smoke it. Caught in two minds about what was about to happen, I just went for it.

Despite being surprisingly adept with lighting the fag, I didn't know how to actually smoke it, and it just sort of hung there, between my lips. I looked at my brother - who was welling up at this point, and he gave me this kind of 'WTF?' look that suggested he was suffering the same feelings as me on this matter.

When my mum said "right, inhale!" - I finally got it.

Now, you've all had that first cigarette, right? The odd feeling of smoke hitting the back of your throat, accidentally breathing out through your nose for the first time and it stinging? Eyes watering as you choke on that first nicotine infused puff?

I experienced all that and more - I was nauseous, half crying, wondering why my mum would put me through this... my brother puked on the spot, unable to overcome the same feelings... it was all very surreal and if anyone from social services had been walking past, well, the rest of my upbringing would have been very, very different.

Anyway, once my mum had got us tearful, vomiting and bright red from all the choking, she took the cigarettes off us, stubbed them out, and gave us this stern warning...

"IF I EVER SEE OR HEAR THAT EITHER OF YOU HAVE BEEN SMOKING, I WILL MAKE YOU SMOKE THIS WHOLE PACKET IN ONE GO. AND THEN EAT ANOTHER, PACKET, WRAPPER, AND ALL!!!"

Now, this might sound very wussy (she's only 5'2 and there's more meat on a pencil), but that was it for us. There was no fucking way I'd be able to even hold a John Player Special, never mind smoke one.

The next time I had a cig was 7 years later, and even that induced some kind of Norman Bates-style 'MOTHER, NO!' moment in me, still traumatised by the horrible event on the sofa, all that time ago.

I love my mum, she's made me and my brother the educated, independent lads we are, but fuck me if she didn't make us work for it.

Length? About a couple of inches, give or take a bit of ash.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Thu 20 Mar 2008, 17:20, Reply)