Sara's Story
Rating: T
Spoilers: Bloodlines (after she's arrested for a DUI)
Summary: The first thing you do when you actually get home… You made sure he didn't see you stumble
Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue
Author's note: I don't know where this story or this sympathy came from
I know you have a little life in you yet
I know you have a lot of strength left
- Kate Bush, This Women's Work
The first thing you do when you actually get home is walk straight into your kitchen. You made sure he didn't see you stumble, and you lock the door. After rinsing the bad taste, eight hours in the making, out of your mouth, you line each and every bottle up on your counter. The meager collection consists mostly of beer. There's a bottle of vodka, a bottle of imported spiced rum, and two of wine, elegant. You step back and it reminds you of a shooting gallery. That thought, while it persists, gives you half a grin.
You pour it all down the drain, quickly, skillfully, unthinkingly. Save one bottle of wine, which is placed, carefully, in the tiny cupboard above your white refrigerator. Both of your shot glasses join it; one reads Harvard, one reads Las Vegas. You briefly consider moving your set of wine glasses, but they're pretty inaccessible in the hall linen closet, and besides, you don't feel like it. Your knees hurt from kneeling on the counter, and you enjoy the sound the bottles make as they land on each other in the recycling bin. You're glad you have no other glasses, no stirrers, no special salts or mixes. And certainly no sweet alcohol, little that goes down easy. For you, drinking was never supposed to be fun. You made sure of it.
You throw all your catalogues away for good measure.
You know he told you that you could call him at any time, and made sure you had his number, but you know you won't call him. You also know he knows it.
You place a yellow legal pad on the table next to your bed. It's the closest thing you'll allow yourself to a diary. It joins a journal article on hypervitaminosis A and a book on Migratory patterns of North American Butterflies West of the Rocky Mountains, and time and your mood tomorrow will determine which you get to first.
You take a quick and scalding shower, trying your damnest to stop your short conversation from cycling in your ears. Then you vigorously brush your teeth with water. You get into bed with your hair still streaming down your back.
The last thing you do after you've gotten into bed is turn the black and white photo of your parents, smiling and unposed in front of their B and B, on its face.