antebellum [t. riddle]

lxxi

march 1945
graphic depictions of violence
substance abuse
brief suicidal ideation

sicaria was going insane, truly.

it seemed she was incapable of true relaxation. her plan of self-restoration had gone miserably; instead of the day of doing nothing, as she had planned, she ended up feeling something akin to guilt about even attempting to rest when the people she loved were in danger, even if it was not imminent. gone were the hopes of momentary peace, and in their place sat that same immovable dread that kept her in a constant state of alertness.

there was nothing— literally nothing— she could be doing to help anyone at this time, but her mind simply wouldn't allow her to rest. panic and anxiety haunted her day and night, to the point where she was becoming irritated by her own emotions.

sicaria awakened long before dawn broke, significantly earlier than what was healthy and what she had planned. she had the vague feeling and memory that she'd had a nightmare, but couldn't recall any of it. she figured it had probably been derivative anyway, and not worth trying to remember. after checking the time, she settled back into her bed, listening to the faint sounds of nighttime fading from outside her apartment.

after an hour of rolling around trying to force herself back to sleep, she groaned as she got herself out of bed. flicking her wrist, she sent a wandless spell to her lamp to turn it on, because the apartment still looked as though it were in the middle of the night.

sparing no time to take in the state of her apartment, sicaria exited her bedroom and went straight to her kitchenette.

she stared into her cabinets seeing them almost completely bare except for two half opened bottles of gin and sake and a few miscellaneous foods scattered around. the items she'd left under stasis were practically inedible now, so if she planned on eating, she'd have to go out, which negated the idea of doing nothing.

this was the second avoidable obstacle she'd encountered— she could have taken a sleeping potion last night and she could've gone out for food yesterday evening— but sicaria hadn't realized relaxing took so much planning.

it was around one o'clock that sicaria decided to give up on the stupid idea of what healer miranda would call 'self healing'. perhaps if she had given it a real attempt, she would not have been so quickly discouraged by the setbacks, but she hadn't really planned on seeing this through, anyway. instead, sicaria moved on to what she had actually wanted to do all along. the solution had always been lingering in the back of her mind.

drugs.

it wasn't lost on her that there had to be at least one misplaced bag of coke somewhere in her home, but those around her had successfully managed to make her feel guilty about the time and emotional labor it took to be around her while high. for miranda, it was only the worry of her addiction worsening while out of reach, but her five boys had to think of that as well as the everlasting potential threat of global conflict. now, every time she wanted to do something reckless, she could feel adonis hugging her, or abraxas trying to comfort her as best he could, or miranda's outburst at realizing she had no grasp on sicaria. it was maddening, being made to feel guilty for something that sicaria felt she was a victim of.

there weren't many things sicaria took responsibility for in her life — it was undeniable that the world had done her many great disservices— but she couldn't force the blame this on anyone else.

she knew it 'hurt' those around her, but addiction was inherently selfish. she could tell herself it had nothing to do with them as much as she wanted, but that wouldn't change the reality of the situation. she didn't want to care about how her actions affected other people— that was really the only way she was able to do her job. everything was supposed to be an equal exchange of guilt and retribution, but sicaria found herself struggling to stay afloat as the scales started to tip.