"She's all alone again
Wiping the tears from her eyes..."
---Green Day, "Extraordinary Girl."
The young woman sighed, and pushed her dark hair away from her face. She inadvertently touched her bruise, and winced. Still sore. She continued to type up the blurred details of the accounts, her mind drifting. When she'd first started this secretarial job, it had been a welcome distraction from everything else, and her mind had been crystal clear and focused. Now, however, it was tarnished and distant. It reminded her of a knife, once sharp and gleaming, now dulled and blunt. She lay unused in a kitchen drawer, dusty and forgotten, looking without seeing at the same blank scene with the same blank stare.
She let out a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding, and glanced in the nearby mirror. If she didn't know it was her, she wouldn't have recognized even herself. The sparkle that used to be always present in her doe-like eyes had hidden itself far away, perhaps even with someone else, someone happier. Her once glossy dark hair had been scraped back from her face so tight that all its lustre had been dulled and even the tiniest curl lay dead at the ends of her judging fingers.
Her skin had a sickly pale pallor that seemed unnatural, and even the tiny gold studs in her ears seemed perfect in comparison to her sheer oddity. She cried out in dismay at the image before her and, raising a tiny fist, she plunged it straight towards the mirror. The force of her rage made an impact when it normally wouldn't have any effect. The mirror seemed to hang in the air for a moment, quivering in its perfect form, before vertically dropping, a straight flight to the ground.
It smashed upon one single touch of the ground, one corner shooting upwards as it shattered singly, cleanly. Summer gasped, her hands instinctively flying to her mouth.
"I never meant to do this... any of this," she murmured. Onlookers might have assumed she was referring to the mirror, but she was talking about her loveless marriage, her past mistakes. She stifled a sob, and bent to pick up the shards of glass. One caught her eye, and she turned it over and over, laying the dangerous yet fragile looking crystal in the palm of her hand. She clenched her fist, and felt the sharp pain.
She dropped it abruptly, gently cradling one hand in another. Yet another mistake, yet another thing she wished she hadn't done. She gently squeezed the soft, creamy skin and watched curiously as a shining scarlet drop of blood formed itself. She felt distant, detached almost, as though she were watching someone else, acting a part in some unreal imaginings.
A tear slid slowly down the bridge of her slight, up-turned nose, dropping off the edge. It seemed to have no hesitations about the jump, and she wished she could be as impulsive. It fell through the heavy air, slowly turning around and around. It splashed into the pool of blood that was welling up on her palm, and the two mingled perfectly; sadness, no, not sadness. So much more than sadness, fear. Fear, of what she had become mingled perfectly with with the pain, pain of being herself.
She slowly lifted her hand, and smeared the mixture of heart truths down one cheek. Sitting back down at her desk, she buried her head in her hands and let the pain and, most of all, the fear devour her from within.
Freddy Jones, alcoholic extraordinnaire. That was all he was good for, mused the young man, a familiar bottle clutched in his shaky hand. His dirty blond spikes curled over limply as though, like Freddy himself, they'd simply given up, though not through lack of trying. His once mischievous chocolate brown eyes stared blankly at the TV, watching some old re-run of his mind, as the screen itself was dark and solemn, showing nothing but a black reflection of the blond's own mood.
He lay slumped on the threadbare couch, deemed lifeless if it were not for the occasional swig of the bottle and faint, shallow, fluttering breaths he was forced to take. His ripped jeans and crumpled, stained, stiff Metallica tee stank of rancid sweat and sour alcohol. He hadn't moved in so many days, he was unsure if he was still able. He willed his right arm to move, and it raised itself for long enough to pour some of the precious, burning liquid down his hot, dry throat.
He was disgusted with himself, with what he had become. He somehow found the energy to violently throw the bottle across the room. He watched in horror as it shattered, and as the pure, amber liquid dribbled down the already discolored wallpaper. He realized that it was his last bottle. The tears fell freely, although they were both unsummoned and unwanted. Catching one on the tip of his pointed pink tongue, he was surprised at its tangy, salty taste; so much beer had gone in his mouth that he expected it to also come out of his mouth.
Then again, maybe he'd just forgotten a taste other than alcohol.
Alcohol. Already it seemed to be fading into his memory, and he needed more. It brought unwelcome feelings of guilt, greed and anger to the surface, but as hideous as these were he valued them still, as they were the only emotions that managed to touch his numb, anesthetized self and get some kind of reaction.
He felt himself get up and kneel by the pool of beer slowly draining away, and he seemed to have no control, as though he were someone else. He bent down, and realized with a sick fascination just exactly what he was planning to do. He slowly placed a hand on either side of the damp beer stain, fighting it all the way, and lowered himself, until he was touching the alcohol-soaked carpet, attempting to lap it up like a trained lapdog.
He felt great distaste, but knew somehow that this was all that was left for him.
