"This is How You Remind Me"
This Is How You Remind Me (Part 1)
Abby woke up just after three a.m. and looked around her. She had to squint because opening her eyes was not an option. They were swollen shut and her hair was matted to her face and neck. Her entire body felt stiff. She had gotten off of work at 6 p.m. and just headed home to her apartment. She climbed into a hot bath and decided to help herself to a beer from the refrigerator. Just one to relax, she had told herself. One turned to two, which quickly lead to three, six, nine.. she lost count after that.
Used to be that a beer or two, (or ten), made her feel brave, tough, invincible even. Now that she had started slowly drinking again she couldn't find the same release in the beverage. Instead it made her feel the opposite of brave, tough, and invincible. She felt like a cream puff, and each bottle succeeded in weakening her resolve, and her spirit. She felt that there were so many things that lead her to this point. In really thinking about her decision to have that first beer after years of sobriety, she snorted out loud when realizing that maybe her life had become too "uncomplicated" and this was her own twisted way of dealing with a peaceful lull. She clearly couldn't blame the attack and Brian for her drinking. Although it was convenient, and might be a valid reason to fall off the wagon, she had to be honest with herself. She had picked up a bottle before she even became involved deeply in that whole mess. Maybe the after effects of the attack had helped her drinking problem along but she had initiated it. She was drinking and she really didn't care, and she didn't know why.
"Son of a bitch!" she looked down and realized that she had somehow managed to cut her foot, in a way that was so bad, it was bleeding profusely. She tried to pick herself up and found it was a move she'd made too quickly, her hangover was already quite intense, and something to reckon with. She didn't feel she had the power to fight it, and sat down dejectedly on the floor. She couldn't help the tears from flowing forth and felt angry with herself for feeling so helpless and out of control. She didn't have any "normal" tears left, not after the roller coaster of a childhood she had experienced. Now, her tears came only when she was angry, embarrassed, or frustrated.
She didn't know what to do, her injury needed to be taken care of but she couldn't help herself, not in this condition. She thought about Luka then quickly dismissed the idea; he was the last person she could bare at this moment. He had no knowledge of her previous drinking problem, an issue she just never considered important enough to bring up with him. It felt such a small and insignificant issue compared with the pain he had suffered in losing his wife and children in Croatia. After he had told her that story she felt the depth of her pain was unmentionable. He knew other things about her, things she decided to tell him. She felt these things were more relevant to her everyday life when she had first become involved with him, no need in making the relationship more complicated than it already was. She realized if she called him for help that he would most likely laugh to see her like this, not realizing the full implications of a night of drunken tomfoolery. He'd playfully scold her and then insist she go to the e.r. for treatment. Taking control was his way of doing things, taking care of her was something he felt entitled to but a factor she found entirely too suffocating. She couldn't explain her injury to her co-workers on shift tonight. She especially would struggle with explaining her blood alcohol level.
She didn't want to be lectured, or taken care of, she wanted support. She wanted understanding. She had a rocking realization that these wants, were part of what lead her back to the bottle in the first place. She wouldn't be able to explain to Luka that this injury was something beyond a drunken indiscretion, nor could she blame him for being so unaware of her. She didn't have the energy to try explaining herself to him anymore, at least not all of her complications and confusions.
She suddenly felt a sharp stinging dart of pain shoot up her leg and realized she had been mulling over things for far too long. She felt alone and frightened, embarrassed at her state, and her rancid breath. She managed to pull herself up onto the bed and she lay face down. She knew she had to get help and she knew too with a surprising clarity of thought amidst this unbearable hangover that it was a time to swallow pride and call the one soul who could give her support and understanding at this moment.
She stretched her arm across the pillows to grab her purse on the bedside table, and in doing so knocked two empty bottles to the floor. The loud clang rattled her nerves and made dialing John's number even more difficult. His cell rang twice and then she heard his voice,
"This is Carter.."
"Hello?" she rattled in a deep raspy voice. She didn't realize that her voice would sound so strange even to herself. He immediately sounded alarmed.
"Hello Abby? Is that you? What is the matter, are you sick?"
"John. I'm sorry it's so late ..are you busy? I need someone to help me."
He didn't understand and sounded very confused.
"Abby please tell me what is wrong.."
"Just get here, please John, it's important.." Her voice cracked as she gave him instructions to have the super in her building let him into her apartment. He wanted to know why she couldn't open the door but she hung up on him grabbing her foot and rolling into a fetal position as pain overtook.
20 minutes later he arrived and entered her apartment. He thanked the guy with the keys and shut the door behind him cautiously. Her apartment was dark and he couldn't make out where everything was. He bumped into her coffee table banging his shin hard.
"Damnit!" "Abby?! Abby, where are you?"
He got no answer but saw a tiny glimmer of light from beneath her bedroom door. When he entered the room he gasped at the sight before his eyes. She looked deathly pale, her skin was moist with sweat, and her white down comforter was covered in blood. "Abby!" He went to her and picked up her face, he began tapping her cheek with one hand and pushing the hair from her face with the other. "Jesus what happened?!" He examined her for any injuries and came upon the severe laceration on her foot. He deducted that she had passed out from the loss of blood. He immediately searched the house for medical supplies hoping to stop the blood. He bit his lips as he worked on her injury, fighting back the sting of tears that he could feel just behind his eyes. He had seen the beer bottles, tripped over them as they were scattered all around the house. He felt so bewildered, worried, and unhappy all at once. His emotions were tumbling forth and over one another and he was powerless to stop the flow of them. The last time he had seen someone he knew this self-destructive and out of control, he had been looking in the mirror.
~End Part 1~
This Is How You Remind Me (Part 1)
Abby woke up just after three a.m. and looked around her. She had to squint because opening her eyes was not an option. They were swollen shut and her hair was matted to her face and neck. Her entire body felt stiff. She had gotten off of work at 6 p.m. and just headed home to her apartment. She climbed into a hot bath and decided to help herself to a beer from the refrigerator. Just one to relax, she had told herself. One turned to two, which quickly lead to three, six, nine.. she lost count after that.
Used to be that a beer or two, (or ten), made her feel brave, tough, invincible even. Now that she had started slowly drinking again she couldn't find the same release in the beverage. Instead it made her feel the opposite of brave, tough, and invincible. She felt like a cream puff, and each bottle succeeded in weakening her resolve, and her spirit. She felt that there were so many things that lead her to this point. In really thinking about her decision to have that first beer after years of sobriety, she snorted out loud when realizing that maybe her life had become too "uncomplicated" and this was her own twisted way of dealing with a peaceful lull. She clearly couldn't blame the attack and Brian for her drinking. Although it was convenient, and might be a valid reason to fall off the wagon, she had to be honest with herself. She had picked up a bottle before she even became involved deeply in that whole mess. Maybe the after effects of the attack had helped her drinking problem along but she had initiated it. She was drinking and she really didn't care, and she didn't know why.
"Son of a bitch!" she looked down and realized that she had somehow managed to cut her foot, in a way that was so bad, it was bleeding profusely. She tried to pick herself up and found it was a move she'd made too quickly, her hangover was already quite intense, and something to reckon with. She didn't feel she had the power to fight it, and sat down dejectedly on the floor. She couldn't help the tears from flowing forth and felt angry with herself for feeling so helpless and out of control. She didn't have any "normal" tears left, not after the roller coaster of a childhood she had experienced. Now, her tears came only when she was angry, embarrassed, or frustrated.
She didn't know what to do, her injury needed to be taken care of but she couldn't help herself, not in this condition. She thought about Luka then quickly dismissed the idea; he was the last person she could bare at this moment. He had no knowledge of her previous drinking problem, an issue she just never considered important enough to bring up with him. It felt such a small and insignificant issue compared with the pain he had suffered in losing his wife and children in Croatia. After he had told her that story she felt the depth of her pain was unmentionable. He knew other things about her, things she decided to tell him. She felt these things were more relevant to her everyday life when she had first become involved with him, no need in making the relationship more complicated than it already was. She realized if she called him for help that he would most likely laugh to see her like this, not realizing the full implications of a night of drunken tomfoolery. He'd playfully scold her and then insist she go to the e.r. for treatment. Taking control was his way of doing things, taking care of her was something he felt entitled to but a factor she found entirely too suffocating. She couldn't explain her injury to her co-workers on shift tonight. She especially would struggle with explaining her blood alcohol level.
She didn't want to be lectured, or taken care of, she wanted support. She wanted understanding. She had a rocking realization that these wants, were part of what lead her back to the bottle in the first place. She wouldn't be able to explain to Luka that this injury was something beyond a drunken indiscretion, nor could she blame him for being so unaware of her. She didn't have the energy to try explaining herself to him anymore, at least not all of her complications and confusions.
She suddenly felt a sharp stinging dart of pain shoot up her leg and realized she had been mulling over things for far too long. She felt alone and frightened, embarrassed at her state, and her rancid breath. She managed to pull herself up onto the bed and she lay face down. She knew she had to get help and she knew too with a surprising clarity of thought amidst this unbearable hangover that it was a time to swallow pride and call the one soul who could give her support and understanding at this moment.
She stretched her arm across the pillows to grab her purse on the bedside table, and in doing so knocked two empty bottles to the floor. The loud clang rattled her nerves and made dialing John's number even more difficult. His cell rang twice and then she heard his voice,
"This is Carter.."
"Hello?" she rattled in a deep raspy voice. She didn't realize that her voice would sound so strange even to herself. He immediately sounded alarmed.
"Hello Abby? Is that you? What is the matter, are you sick?"
"John. I'm sorry it's so late ..are you busy? I need someone to help me."
He didn't understand and sounded very confused.
"Abby please tell me what is wrong.."
"Just get here, please John, it's important.." Her voice cracked as she gave him instructions to have the super in her building let him into her apartment. He wanted to know why she couldn't open the door but she hung up on him grabbing her foot and rolling into a fetal position as pain overtook.
20 minutes later he arrived and entered her apartment. He thanked the guy with the keys and shut the door behind him cautiously. Her apartment was dark and he couldn't make out where everything was. He bumped into her coffee table banging his shin hard.
"Damnit!" "Abby?! Abby, where are you?"
He got no answer but saw a tiny glimmer of light from beneath her bedroom door. When he entered the room he gasped at the sight before his eyes. She looked deathly pale, her skin was moist with sweat, and her white down comforter was covered in blood. "Abby!" He went to her and picked up her face, he began tapping her cheek with one hand and pushing the hair from her face with the other. "Jesus what happened?!" He examined her for any injuries and came upon the severe laceration on her foot. He deducted that she had passed out from the loss of blood. He immediately searched the house for medical supplies hoping to stop the blood. He bit his lips as he worked on her injury, fighting back the sting of tears that he could feel just behind his eyes. He had seen the beer bottles, tripped over them as they were scattered all around the house. He felt so bewildered, worried, and unhappy all at once. His emotions were tumbling forth and over one another and he was powerless to stop the flow of them. The last time he had seen someone he knew this self-destructive and out of control, he had been looking in the mirror.
~End Part 1~