Skye wades detachedly through the mess of scrambling nurses and healers, not feeling any touch, not registering anything, even when she is struck in the face by a waving arm. She mumbles a few apologies at random, but mostly just focuses on making her feet move themselves to the elevator. Then through the winding corridors of the temple. Then, finally, blessedly, through the door of Anakin's apartment. She sits at the kitchen table, staring torpidly out the window, not seeing anything, not feeling anything, not thinking anything. The holocron on the wall ticks vapidly, and Skye desperately wishes it would stop. Finally, she can't take it anymore, and she cracks. She picks up the nearest object –a knife- and hurls it at the holocron blindly, fueled by rage. Part of the Jedi code comes to mind –there is no emotion, there is peace- and she screams with rage at it –shut up!- and destroys the holocron, crushing parts of it in her bare hands. –there is no passion, there is serenity- and she picks up the biggest chunk of clock and heaves it out the window. A wordless scream erupts from her, and absently, in some distant part of her mind, she thanks the force that nobody is around the apartments to hear her losing control. Finally, her rage is spent, and all that is left is despair and bitterness. –how could she have let herself go like that- she looks up at the cabinets above her, and opens one of them, searching for her elixir. She swore she would never return to the bottle, yet, there she was, drowning her fears in Correllian ale. –you're afraid- -shut up- -cant stop- -no no no nonono…- -how will you tell him- -stop it- -what if he doesn't love you anymore- -he wont, no he cant, no- -he'll turn you over to the council- she drains the bottle and reaches up to the cabinet for more. Anakin has plenty of alcohol saved for special occasions, and that suits her purposes perfectly. She finds a large bottle of lum –my favorite- and drains it quickly, then harvests all she can from the small cupboards –which isn't much- and sinks down the wall, ignoring the pain in her legs from sitting on broken glass, and finishes all the drinks, wallowing in sorrow and brokenness. Finally, as if the force –you still believe? - takes pity on her, she passes out, steeped in alcohol, the remains of her despair-fueled binge scattered around her.