There is something deliriously wonderful about being able to pass out without a care as to where you are or who will see you. There is something much less wonderful about waking up without knowing where you will be and who will be with you.
You don't need to open your eyes to know that the world has been set off at an unwelcoming angle. You feel it in your bones, in the imprint that the rough carpet is making against your cheek, in the smooth glass held loosely between your fingers. But you open your eyes anyway, and do your best to sort through the overload of stimuli as it scorches your retinas. Upon further examination, you discover that it's not the world that's crooked. It's you, your neck, your body, your mind, and you are quite certain that the knots in your shoulders will not go away for a very long time.
You're stiff from lying in the same position for God knows how long. Your body protests and you struggle to sit up and brush your hair from your face. Maybe it's time to take up yoga. You've been promising yourself that you'd try it out for years. You could search for some videos online, maybe see if Jane could dig anything up for you on the subject.
In a moment, you're standing, making the executive decision to leave the empty glass and bottle for later, because if you bend down now, you're quite certain that you will never get back up.
But when you turn to the mirror to see just how dark the circles under your eyes have gotten, you remember.
Oh.
Oh.
Shock. It's the first emotion that you can name, and it passes quickly. The game ended. You are quick to ponder and dismiss this fact. Instead, you find yourself enamored with your reflection, captivated by the ways you have grown, the ways you have stayed the same. Is that really your face underneath the stale creams and powders and lipstick? You hope not.
Because you are gorgeous in all of the right ways. You have the face of a mother, kind and gentle and stern and wise. Your eyebrows are plucked to perfection. Your cheekbones are angular but your cheeks are plump and rosy and your lips are full. You're beautiful. You are a vision of perfection but no, please, no, you don't want this. You don't want this face or this body because they are that of what you imagined your own mother to be and it crushes something inside you beyond recognition.
You will never be her.
You don't like this. You don't like this version of reality. You're just a kid. You're a teenager, and you're still trying to figure out what this life is about. You are lost and confused and misdirected, and whoever thought you were enough to fill the shoes of this woman was wrong.
But try as you might, you can't think of any way to fix this.
And so you stare.
You ignore the seconds as they stumble into minutes, ignore the shaking in your knees as an entire hour passes. You inspect every bit of your skin, every blemish, every mark. There's a scar on your hand from when you fell on the broken shards of your wine glass. You were thirteen. But it's there. The mark is there.
This is you, now. This is the new you. Or maybe the old you. You were never really sure about how the timelines worked. That wasn't your area of expertise.
You need a drink.
There is a stunning lack of fenestrated plans around the house. You don't give too much thought to it. It's not like you need the transportation. The world outside of the windows - the real windows - has yet to be submerged under sea.
This house is disturbingly familiar, though. It's your house, but it's not. Everything is different. Or, almost everything. The liquor is still in the same place. A small comfort.
You take a bottle of something or other and a large glass and sit on the couch. You don't want to think anymore. It hurts your head and your heart and while you should be trying to get in touch with someone (at least Rose. Rose should be here. You have to find Rose.), you can't bring yourself to do it. You don't want to see anymore. You don't want to acknowledge the time that has passed and reversed and twisted itself.
And so you drink.