𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➢ JOHNNY ROTTEN

TWENTY TWO

Marion was spiralling. The unexpected reappearance of her father had sent her into a tailspin, leaving her in a state of disarray. Her impulsive encounter with Kenny did little to extinguish the chaos that was engulfing her. She was sleep-deprived and perpetually exhausted, a shadow of her usual self.

Returning home from work, Marion carried the weight of a new burden—she had lost her job. Fired, really, though she couldn't bring herself to admit it outright. Her attendance had become erratic, her moods unpredictable. She was either hungover or simply not present, mentally or physically.

Deep down, she knew why Geoff had let her go. He had been understanding, more than she deserved. She was a mess, barely able to tolerate her own company, let alone maintain a job. And yet, it stung. She had genuinely liked the job, and now, without any source of income, her situation felt even more desperate.

With the little money she had left from her final paycheck, Marion made a detour to the liquor store. She emerged with a bottle of vodka—a choice that was unusual for her. She had never really liked vodka; the taste never appealed to her. But she wasn't after enjoyment.

The bottle, cradled in a crumpled paper bag, felt heavy in Marion's hand as she opened the front door to her flat. The sudden appearance of Keith, who was on his way out, caught her off guard.

"Fuckin' hell," Marion muttered, her heart skipping a beat.

Keith chuckled. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I'm just heading out for a bit. You alright?" His eyes then fell on the vodka in her hand, and his tone shifted. "Planning a party for one?"

Marion faced a dilemma. Should she confide in Keith? She didn't want to burden him with her troubles. Opting for the latter, she forced a smile, attempting to sound casual. "I'm fine. Just felt like a drink, y'know?"

Keith's concern only seemed to deepen. "If you say so. You sure everything's okay?" he pressed gently.

Marion nodded. "Yeah, just a long day. You go have fun," she said, waving him off, trying to dispel his worries.

Keith hesitated, his instincts telling him something was off. "Alright, I'll be back later," he said, reluctantly accepting her assurance.

As he started to leave, he paused and turned back to Marion. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. "Oh, almost forgot. John called earlier. Left his number for you," Keith said, handing her the paper.

Marion was taken aback. How did he even get her number? She figured Joe or someone must've relayed it to him. "John? What does he want?"

Keith shrugged. "Didn't say. Just asked for you to ring him."

Marion took the paper. "Right. I'll give him a ring later," she said, slipping the paper into her pocket.

After bidding Keith goodbye, Marion was left alone with her thoughts and the bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap and took a harsh gulp, immediately regretting it as the vile liquid burned its way down her throat. The sensation was both painful and strangely satisfying.

She lit a cigarette and began sifting through her record collection. Her fingers stopped on Pink Floyd's "Meddle." She pulled the record out, placing it on her turntable. As the needle dropped and "One of These Days" began to play, the familiar strains of the music filled the room. She fucking loved this track. It was wonderful. It soared in all the right directions.

Marion continued to drink, the vodka burning less with each gulp, but it was still an unwelcome harshness. She reached the halfway point of the bottle and couldn't stomach any more. All she wanted now was a simple beer, something less aggressive, more familiar. Abandoning the vodka, she rummaged through her fridge, hoping for an overlooked can. No luck. Fuck.