A/N: I'm terrible, yes. I've been so so so busy and blocked like crazy, unable to work on Thoughts or Friction at all. I wrote this little doo-dad while listening to a song (the song that inspired this one-shot, to be exact. Check it out!) and wishing I had someone as gorgeous as Indiana Jones. I know I should be working on other projects, and mind you, my fanfiction friends remind me enough of my horrible updating habits. But, you know me, I sometimes can't refrain from slipping into Marion's head. It can't be helped, sorry. I was going for sarcastic angst in here. It's not great, but needed to be written. Read and review, pretty please?

Three months, and I'm still breathing
Three months and I still remember it
Three months and I wake up
Three months and I'm still sober
- Kelly Clarkson, Sober

Well. I've made it this far, haven't I?

I mean, looking positively at this situation, I would say I've done pretty damn well. I've held up my chin high (minus those few times I let it drop and broke down into consistent sobs) I've let no one see me cry (I mean no one I know personally. I mean, strangers in the market and on the street in the library...well, they're a different story.) and I've devoted all my time to forgetting about him (Except for those few dozen or so times I let myself day dream and day dream until my head was spinning.)

Three months and I'm not dead. Yet.

I stare at my hands, folded quietly in my lap as Abner skims through some text book, aloof and oblivious to his silent daughter as always.

Three months.

I can do this.

It's no big deal.

..........

Right?

My hands shake slightly and I hang my head even more.

Shit.

Three months. December. January. February. A whole winter flown by. Ninety days. Two thousand one hundred and sixty hours. Lord knows how many minutes.

It's not that hard, I tell myself, taking deep breaths that are barely heard in the mute space between Abner and I. I've already made it this far. It's only been three months. A girl can handle that.

The continued shaking of my clenched fists says differently.

"Marion," The silence is shattered by the austere tone of my father, addressing me for the first time in two thousand sixty hours. I know it's hard to believe, but we've somehow managed to live for three months without communicating. Talk about dysfunctional family. He's actually talking to me now, looking all the more pained at doing so, "I'm sure you know what today is, don't you?"

I freeze, every ounce of matter in my body ringing with dread. Oh, Jesus Christ and Mother Mary, is he seriously going to rub it in my face NOW? Just when I'm so close to closure and calming myself down?! I nearly burst into tears, tucking my head down so he can't see my face.

It's been three months and we haven't mentioned it, we haven't dared mentioned HIM. Not that we need to, the mere personality of him seems to hang over the house like suspended rain clouds, lingering in the small things he left behind. Those silly notes we would write each other in the library, the napkins we used to hide the food in from dinners that made us both want to hurl, his bedsheets, unwashed and unmade since he left; they were things that Abner and I acknowledged heavily (He with disdain and me with a pathetic nostalgia.) but never spoke about.

How could Abner bring this up? Does he really want to drive me to the worst sort of depression? How could he want to open up wounds that have barely begun to heal in the last three months?

Three months.

It reverberates in my head. As does the swimming image of his face, smiling and dazzling as it always was to me.

Our three month anniversary, Indy. I spat sarcastically to the face in my head. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours ago, you left.

Talking to images in our heads are we now, Marion?

This cannot be healthy.

I glare at my lap, trying to squash his head out of my own.

"Happy Birthday," Abner continues stiffly, completely unaware of the fact that I am clearly having an aneurysm in an effort to forget a certain bloody someone, "Eighteen years old is quite a feat."

I blink in reply, saying nothing; the usual routine for the last three months. I can't believe I forgot about my own birthday. I guess I was preoccupied with other things.

Other people.

God, I miss him so much.

My head starts throbbing and Abner looks blankly at me, searching my placid face for a sign that I'm still alive and haven't died suddenly. I'm so still my chest barely moves as I breath. Am I even breathing?

Marion, nod to him. NOD.

I shake my head up and down, feeling like a doll in a child's hands.

Abner stands, his greying hair shimmering as he awkwardly exits the room without another word. I can guarantee that that's going to be our conversation to last the next year. Who knows if I'll even make it.

I still recall that night, raw and stinging as it always has been. It happened to fast to remember every detail. I remember kissing. Lots of kissing. And then a slam. Yelling. Sobbing. More slamming. One last kiss, so quick that Abner wouldn't notice it. So much more sobbing it's difficult to say if it's me doing it.

It was on that day that I said I wouldn't think about him. I wouldn't have anything to do with him.

Rubbing my temples to try and decrease the head ache, I spot something near me, and sit up wearily. I breathe unsteadily and reach forward to grab the wine bottle sitting at the end of the table, barley touched.

Three months and missing him hasn't broken me yet.

I don't plan on letting it.

I raise the bottle in a toast, smiling sardonically at the dark shadows of the room. "Here's to you, Indiana Jones. Here's to three goddamn miserable months without you."

Lifting the tall bottle to my lips, I sigh heavily, enjoying the bitter taste slipping down my throat. With each drop, a piece of self preservation seems to fall away from me.

Three months.

Ninety days.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty hours.

Lord knows how many minutes.

It's not until I finish the bottle that I let my tears fall.