Nonchalance
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	(A young man enters the room, with a lone chair as the only thing that might serve as companion. Bringing a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it as he sits on top, he appears ghostly under the single light bulb that hangs from above him. All around him, there are only walls and ceilings and floors of black. A few puffs and what could have been a mixed sigh and simple breathing, he puts his cigarette to his side and begins his story.)

	I, then, was not the person that I am now. Back then... 

	(He puffs from the cigarette. Almost then you could just swear that he looked a bit older, that there was this slight change in his face that you couldn't put your finger on.)

	I was not a broken down piece of garbage that society treats as spit. I never would have admitted this to anyone, but now I just figured, who am I kidding? It's not like it's written all over my face already. Not like I could do anything to hide it. You can hide wounds, but there're reasons why scars are there to cover them - like pesky alarm clocks, they'll be there to wake you up to your past experiences and make you learn for the present's experiences.
	What are the chances of the same things happening exactly again, anyway? I wouldn't know, but as far as I do know, the wounds that have no scars are those that hurt the most. Do you know why that is? (He takes another swing at the cigarette, letting it run through his system before letting it go like a bad memory.) They hurt the most because they just pop out from out of nowhere, usually during the times when you're weakest, pulling you downwards as the noose called regret embraces your neck.

	I had a good life. A great life, rather. (He pats the cigarette lightly with his right index finger, spilling the ashes on the floor, which dissipate as fast as they danced towards the ground.) I'll skip the details of that, since you'd probably want to get to the juicy part of my story. You don't have to deny it. You're interested in what this cross mark on chest stands for.
	Well, let me tell you, then. (Again he breathes from the cigarette, which burns a bright red-orange briefly. Burning embers fall once more as he taps the cigarette, and as soon as he did, you could notice some slight wrinkles forming on his face.) Once I promised someone that I would love her for the rest of my life, and I did. I died soon after she left me, but then I still loved her. I loved her as if I, no, we were still alive, still breathing. There was no question, during those times, there was no greater emotion that existed.
	Her touch was the warmth of that labored bonfire in the middle of a chilly November evening, her gaze was the reflection of the sun on the afternoon seas, her words were the ideals that formed the consciences of every man. She was all those and more, and I had not noticed them until she had gone. Despite this, I loved her, I truly did. (He crouches slightly, embracing a non-existent figure around his chest. Seeming to be a mannerism or lisp that one could not ever shake off, he quickly takes into himself a part of the lighted stick that he expertly held.)

	(The light above him flashes rapidly for a few moments, on the verge of burning out completely, but struggles to remain alight. He looks up a while, breathes from the cigarette, and continues to speak.)

	Everyday I waited for her, gave up all my time for her. And as I gave more, I felt I gained more. During those times there was this unexplainable feeling. I knew it was love, and I thought I loved her. Without question I defended her from any dangers, guided her through problems and plain bad days, shared with her her pain, breathed for her her life. We were almost like two persons made as one, and I loved her.

	(The cigarette burns slightly yet again.)

	But she did not love me. She did not love me when she would notice the bruises on her thighs, the cuts on her face, the swellings on her eyes and lips and chest, the burning sensations on her hands, the icy chill of my hand on hers. She forgot all about the meaning of love when she looked into my eyes and saw herself through a sky blue hue. (He lifts a foot from the floor onto the footrest of the tall stool that he was sitting on.) And when the time came that she had known that she no longer loved me, she escaped her body and made for another place that might have loved her better than I did. And it was then that I knew I lost my life. I should not have loved her, but I still did. This cross that was the promise of eternity singed my skin and burnt all the way into my heart.

	(He begins to stagger, and later, like a rattled, old man, he falls to the floor. The light dims slightly until the chair is out of sight, until only the outline of his broken form is visible.)

	Not like I could do anything. I loved her, I truly did. How did I ever get to lighting this cigarette? This is my love for her, I suppose - this is what she gave me when she left me. And though she is gone, I don't think I can ever forget.

	(And then another, last puff that consumes the cigarette.)