SERAPHIC BLISS

26. Hip flasks and Invitations

"It has been reported , that as of today's released statement by the Russian Vice president ; the rumors circulating for the last few weeks have been confirmed by the Russian Government. His body was found lifeless in his home office with multiple stab wounds and the expression 'beaten to a pulp' is circulated among the doctors who conducted Mr. Ivanov's autopsy. The guards protecting the premises have been rendered to lifeless forms, reported the Authorities. Multiple mutilated corpses were preserved in the basement of Ivanov Estate. Moreover , a footage of disturbing footage has been submitted to all the popular channels , which cannot be shown on television due to its-explicit nature. The video depicts , Mr. Ivanov , the deceased president committing acts with the said corpses which clearly signals towards chronic necrophilia. The detectives assigned to the care have ruled out , the death of Mr. Ivanov as premeditated murder. The British prime minister is yet to release a statement on this tragedy that has-"

Splinter of glass , vodka and the television screen fly in the air , leaving the room in the technical screech that is shrill against Victoria's drunken state. Lifting her head up from the sofa armrest , she sighs at the sound of paper being pushed beneath the closed door , it had been four and a half weeks since that door had been pried open.

There is a letter on the floor.

Victoria lets her head fall back against the cushion and reaches blindly for one of the half emptied bottles besides her. She assumed one of the neighboring individuals in squalid excuse of house estate decided to play the good Samarian and collect her posts for her. She was back in her old apartment in London , where it all started. The memory of a drenched and bruised Elizabeth walking up to Victoria's door to haunts her. Emotions were truly a disadvantage in her case.

How kind of them she thinks to herself , bitterly. Kinder than most.

Raising the bottle to her lips she drinks , staring bleakly at the ceiling. The vodka lost its sting weeks ago , its just liquid now.

Tasteless , numbing liquid.

The room sways and her hand slips , there is vodka on her collar , dousing her neck, burning the grazes on her knuckles. They are still there , reminders of that night at the Ivanov's Estate. She refuses to let them heal , and keeps picking at the scabbing skin , because its the only thing that makes her feel anything.

There are days when she wants nothing but closure. She craves it , sometimes it terrifies her because it is so inherently wrong ; wanting to feel the blade of sharpened steel on her skin , the weightlessness of submersion and the dry taste sleeping pills on her tongue.

The bottle rolls off the sofa and lands with a muffled clunk on the carpet. She blinks and sighs in stale air then deflating ,sinking. She watches the dust particles in the air , that become visible with the onslaught of sunlight.

Heaving herself up to sitting position , and then stand , jostling the bottle and cans at her feet. The apartment is in a complete disarray ; she can't find herself to organize it. She scarcely moves nowadays , occasional trips to the kitchen and bathroom , she doesn't eat much , but she drinks plenty.

There are moments when all she can do is bite down on her fist and stifle the screams of unmitigated frustration, such is the desire to return to Elizabeth and beg for false forgiveness. It is then , when she hates herself the most. She can't even go back to the man's who's network she handled for three years , he would do nothing but manipulate her into his own twisted game , and she had enough manipulation for a lifetime.

She has entered a destructive inescapable spiral ; she becomes unceasingly angry and the apartment reflects her rage. The cabinet has been smashed , the table is overturned and now the television lies cracked face down on the floor , which is covered in broken glasses and cups , everything she found in her fits of fume.