Word Count: 599
CW: Mild violence
Related works: N/A
She damn near twisted her ankle walking up the wooden steps in high heels after a full bottle of wine (and carrying a few more bottles of not-wine), but she felt it was worth it when he opened the door.
“Oh. Hey.” He said, taking in the brown paper wrapped bottles. He frowned as he took in the rest of her outfit. “What were you doing before you came over?”
“Nothing.” She said innocently as she struggled to remove her shoes. “Why?”
He said nothing, only growled and took a bottle from her. “Whatever. Come lay down with me.”
She watched him walk into the bedroom, opened one of the remaining bottles, and swallowed a generous amount before following him.
He had powered up her smart TV and was scrolling through YouTube. “Anything you wanna watch?” He asked, lifting the bottle to his lips.
She shook her head. “No. Scoot over.”
He did, and wrapped his remote arm around her as his drinking arm continued its workout. She noticed that he had navigated away from the main page and into her account page.
“Who is she, anyway? This Princess character. Why do you have a whole playlist of songs for her?”
She squirmed in her spot next to him. “Nothing, it’s a writing thing.”
He paused, mulling over her words in his mouth. “A writing thing.”
“Then you don’t mind if I take a look into your inspiration, do you?”
She froze. “Don’t.”
“You last added to this playlist four days ago. She on your mind?”
“Come on! I’m sorry! I’ll delete it, I’ll take it down.” She reached for the remote, which he moved out of her reach. She struggled more, and he pushed her head away to give him room to stand.
“I’m really curious to hear what made you think of her four days ago.” He selected a video- a song, really- and watched the emotion on her face as it played.
“I’m s-s-sorry, I swear it doesn’t mean anything.” She cried as she held her hands over her ears.
“You’re a bad actress. You’re not sorry. You don’t care. You wouldn’t still be thinking about her if you cared.” He took a long drink from his bottle.
She slowly rose to her feet, grabbing her own abandoned bottle from the foot of the bed. For a moment, he considered not allowing her to pass, but decided against it.
She walked into the bathroom, felt secure with the door closed and locked behind her. Bottle neatly on the edge of the sink. She watched herself in the mirror. She neatly lifted the bottle and drank, too. Why not, he surely was.
She saw her face, felt his words, and knew she’d feel them more later.
She saw her face, and remembered.
Maybe I’m not explaining this right,
But you’re truly special.
And if anyone doesn’t see that, even me,
Then THEY’RE wrong.
She heard her words, and looked down at her hands. They were still, clutching the bottle.
They were open, sending it crashing to the floor.
They were closed, they were moving, they were flying into the glass, again and again. Until she stopped seeing, stopped hearing.
She looked at the mess of broken glass and spilled liquor, of blood. In a haze of alcohol and adrenaline, she unlocked the bathroom door and walked back to the bedroom.
He was laying down on his back on the bed, and barely opened his eyes when he felt her fill the doorway.
She held up her bleeding hands with glass embedded in them and smirked.