𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞// 𝐓𝐎𝐌 𝐊𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐙

DUI

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February 20, 2011

It's been a week since I've been attacked, and surviving that brutal kidnapping altered me in profound ways. The world around me turned into a silent, colorless place. I distanced myself from others, seeking solitude in my isolation. The trauma etched a relentless desire for revenge deep within my soul. Each day, my thoughts were clouded by dark and murderous notions, an inescapable torment that haunted my every moment. I don't recognize myself anymore.

The burden of these thoughts weighed me down, making me yearn for a sense of justice. I wanted to set right the terrible wrongs that had been inflicted upon me. It was a heavy and lonely path I tread, marked by the struggle to rediscover the person I once was.

I can sense the worry in the eyes of those around me. I've avoided speaking to anyone, even Tom, who I know is grappling with his own frustration. His anger often spills out onto Bill, and it's evident that this entire situation is driving him to the brink of madness as well.

——-

As the clock ticks to 3 a.m., Tom is fast asleep. Since the attack, sleep has been a precious commodity, something I can only find during the daytime hours. The night has become my sanctuary, the darkness a comforting veil to hide my shattered self.

Tonight, an overwhelming craving leads me downstairs to the bar. It's the one thing that provides a semblance of solace amidst the chaos within me. I scan the shelves for a bottle, any bottle, but to my dismay, there's no more alcohol. Did they hide it from me?

"Those fuckers" I mumbled under my breath.

I grab my car keys and make my way out of the house, a maddening desire coursing through my veins. As I step outside, one of the security guards approaches me, his voice tinged with concern, "Ms. Lucchese, you shouldn't be going out."

"But I am." I respond, walking past him and heading toward my car.

"HEY! I'M SERIOUS, COME BACK!" He follows me, his hand grabbing my arm with a desperate grip.

I act without thinking, swiftly pulling my gun from my waistband and pressing it against his jaw. "Get your fucking hands off me." I utter sternly, locking eyes with him in a silent standoff.

"Yes, ma'am." he stammers, loosening his grip as he takes a step back. I yank my arm away, unlock the car, and rev the engine, speeding off into the darkness.

The highway stretches before me, and I navigate it with an intensity that mirrors the turmoil inside. Cars swiftly move to the far right lane, granting me the entire road, as if they sense the storm raging within me.

I find my way to a 24-hour convenience store and park haphazardly. Inside, I grab a basket and head to the alcohol section, not bothering to check the labels as I fill the basket to the brim. The middle-aged man behind the counter eyes me with a mixture of curiosity and concern as I approach.

"Can I get a pack of Marlboro Red?"

"I need to see your ID." he replies.

"I don't have it." I retort, my patience wearing thin.

"Then I can't serve you cigarettes nor that alcohol." he says, unwavering in his stance. Frustration boils over, and I drop the basket to the floor, the bottles clinking together. In a flash, I grab his shirt, pulling him close.

"I said give me a pack of Marlboro Red." I say firmly into his ear. He pushes me away.

"I'm going to call the cops." he threatens. I reach for my gun, swiftly pointing it at his face.