The cigarette knew he was dying.
‘Funny,‘ he thought, ‘I have never burned so bright.’
He took comfort knowing that he was killing while slowly being killed, like a wasp with only one sting, he would inflict pain upon its killer.
Dying made one philosophical. The cigarette was now half smoke, half tobacco. He was experiencing metamorphosis becoming ash falling into the ashtray that housed the remains of his family. Though he had watched his entire family get pulled from the pack one by one, there had always been hope that he would be spared.
Now he knew he had been made for this very purpose, to poison the lungs of his killer.
He could see his own butt getting closer and closer. Time was almost up. He knew his murderer would keep smoking long after he was gone.
So near the end, the cigarette was frustrated he still knew as little about the meaning of life as when he had been safe within the womb of the pack. And though life was brutal, cruel, and much too short, the cigarette tried his damndest not to burn, not to fade to ashes, until he could fight no more.
‘This is it,’ the cigarette knew. He both feared and needed what was coming.
The killer snuffed the cigarette into the ashtray. Smoke floated above the assassin’s head like an angel til his halo faded away.