She was always drunk.
Occasionally, she would get so drunk that she would start dancing around.
Singing lame songs, twirling about, telling everyone that she wasn't mean, she loved everybody. She'd kiss him sloppily, drunkenly.
He pretended it disgusted him.
He'd carry her home, as she screamed how much she hated him for ruining her fun. "No, I'm just joking Jakey, I love you, I love everybody!" she'd say, shrieking with laughter.
He thought it was absolute madness. Yet sort of beautiful. Because this type of drunk was the most preferred.
Most of the time she would get so drunk that she'd cry so much she could barely see.
All she could feel was pain.
She thought that the vodka would help her to end it. But it never did.
There was always someone there. To confiscate the bottle. To tell her there was something better out there for her. Tell her if she did that to herself, imagine what she'd be doing to him.
They'd sit there for the rest of the night on the bathroom floor, and he didn't care that he would probably be doing the same thing tomorrow night.
Because he'd been there. And he saw her. He knew why she was like this. And he loved her for it.