Bad Medicine
Power on.
The white light of the screen illuminates her pale skin. Thin fingers clack away on the keyboard. Someone rings in and after a brief hesitation she answers.
The bottle next to her bed is two-thirds empty. Yesterday it was full.
"When are you coming home?"
She has no answer.
He has a strange feeling she isn't listening to anything he says- merely providing answers that could pass as being thought out.
She's lacking in something.
Some energy, some spark, some desire.
"I'm going out," she tells him.
Power off and the rest of the night begins.
------------------
Power on.
Two days later and the bottle next to her bed is empty. And another half-gone.
"Are you coming home soon?"
She says she can't; it's too soon, it won't work, it's too difficult, she's too poor.
She's too tired.
Tired. She's numb, feeling nothing, lacking life.
"I'm going out," she tells him.
Life is a choice; she’s chosen waking up wondering who the fuck she is on a Sunday morning.
"I thought you were staying in?" he asks her.
The right of life. The right of rotting away.
She shrugs and looks down at the bruises on her thighs.
Power off and the toxic ritual begins.
------------------
Power on.
Three days after and the absence of alcohol in her environment is disturbing her. One day sober and she's craving a drink- just for the taste. She doesn't need comfort, doesn't need an addiction sated- just the taste.
Sweet liquor on her tongue and the warmth in her stomach. Someone calls in and she decides it can wait 'til after. But not too long.
"Maybe you should come home,” he tells her slowly, eyeing her slumped posture.
She mumbles something that could pass for agreement and looks at her nails.
"Are you doing anything tonight?"
She looks up at this question, and considers her answer carefully. She shouldn't do anything tonight. She needs to reassess everything.
"I don't think so." she replies.
"I'll call in again later."
Power off and she cleans the kitchen to keep her hands busy.
------------------
Power on.
He tries to call her but she's still not online. He heard that a bottle of sherry somehow became involved in the last few days.
She's not coming home any time soon; he knows that. He knew that. The moment her skin dulled and the sparkle left her eyes he knew it was the beginning of the end.
Power off and he needs to reassess everything.
Eyes the bourbon in the corner and leaves the room to make a cup of tea he won't enjoy.
Anything but alcohol. He doesn’t need mind-numbing or spirit crushing poison right now.
He intends to choose life and feel alive when all this is over.
The white light of the screen illuminates her pale skin. Thin fingers clack away on the keyboard. Someone rings in and after a brief hesitation she answers.
The bottle next to her bed is two-thirds empty. Yesterday it was full.
"When are you coming home?"
She has no answer.
He has a strange feeling she isn't listening to anything he says- merely providing answers that could pass as being thought out.
She's lacking in something.
Some energy, some spark, some desire.
"I'm going out," she tells him.
Power off and the rest of the night begins.
------------------
Power on.
Two days later and the bottle next to her bed is empty. And another half-gone.
"Are you coming home soon?"
She says she can't; it's too soon, it won't work, it's too difficult, she's too poor.
She's too tired.
Tired. She's numb, feeling nothing, lacking life.
"I'm going out," she tells him.
Life is a choice; she’s chosen waking up wondering who the fuck she is on a Sunday morning.
"I thought you were staying in?" he asks her.
The right of life. The right of rotting away.
She shrugs and looks down at the bruises on her thighs.
Power off and the toxic ritual begins.
------------------
Power on.
Three days after and the absence of alcohol in her environment is disturbing her. One day sober and she's craving a drink- just for the taste. She doesn't need comfort, doesn't need an addiction sated- just the taste.
Sweet liquor on her tongue and the warmth in her stomach. Someone calls in and she decides it can wait 'til after. But not too long.
"Maybe you should come home,” he tells her slowly, eyeing her slumped posture.
She mumbles something that could pass for agreement and looks at her nails.
"Are you doing anything tonight?"
She looks up at this question, and considers her answer carefully. She shouldn't do anything tonight. She needs to reassess everything.
"I don't think so." she replies.
"I'll call in again later."
Power off and she cleans the kitchen to keep her hands busy.
------------------
Power on.
He tries to call her but she's still not online. He heard that a bottle of sherry somehow became involved in the last few days.
She's not coming home any time soon; he knows that. He knew that. The moment her skin dulled and the sparkle left her eyes he knew it was the beginning of the end.
Power off and he needs to reassess everything.
Eyes the bourbon in the corner and leaves the room to make a cup of tea he won't enjoy.
Anything but alcohol. He doesn’t need mind-numbing or spirit crushing poison right now.
He intends to choose life and feel alive when all this is over.
Comments
Simple, poignant, and angsty. Right up your alley.