This one's a teeny bit longer for you guys. I know some of you would prefer they be longer, but I'm trying a drabble thing. So. I guess maybe you could just read a whole bunch at once? :)
Also, for those who were asking about my LiveJournal, nope, you don't have to have an account to comment. ;)
And also, I'm sorry for the delay; my computer's in the repair place and I just canNOT write pen/paper. IDK why, but I can't. So I haven't been able to write at all. :(
Part 6
The liquor finishes and the memories begin.
Recurring, they are; flashes of ash-blonde and apricot red, baby hands and haunting grey eyes. He debates getting up to dig out the spare spare bottle, from the shoebox on the top shelf of the closet.
Something in his mind says this will be a bad idea, but it's faraway and not very convincing. Or at least, not as convincing as the heavy air around him, thick with leftover death and depression.
He stubs his toe against the step as he lurches upwards. Two, three, four, fi—
Susan hates when he lands hard on this step, the squeaky one. She says it disturbs her sleep, but he always figures that she's the housewife, after all—can't she get it fixed, if it bothers her so much?
His burgeoning anger is cut off at the knees by the shoulder bag at the top of the staircase. Susan hadn't been expecting much more than a quick visit when she went to the hospital, and had packed accordingly.
He swipes the bag into the hand not holding himself up, stumbling with a groan. The bedroom – that's why, he realizes. This is what his alcohol-saturated brain wanted to protect him from.
Dumping the cloth onto the bed, he shuffles toward the closet in the corner.
There. Top shelf.
Not confident in his ability to extract the bottle from the box without sitting down or dropping something, he returns to the couch to retrieve his prize.
The couch cushions receive him gently, and he pries the lid up with clumsy fingers.
And that's when it hits him.
*
There she is.
Her face is still round, her baby hair dark; not yet lightened to the spun-gold color it would settle on. Her eyes, though.
Her eyes are the most different.
They're almost green, sparkling and happy, and he stares at her. She looks a little like Lexie did as a child, her smile mischievous and clever. It pains him that his other daughter couldn't escape her shadow.
She's about a year and a half, back when everything was fine. Ellis was—
No.
He's not going to go there.
With a growl, he slams the lid back on the box, fingers already searching for his glass.
But then he remembers.
He does not want to see her again. But he desperately needs the alcohol she guards.
Dammit.
Why is she always in the way?