𝘊𝘖𝘕 𝘖𝘍 𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌 | ᴘʀᴇ ʀᴅʀ2

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After Walker left Rosalie, she passed out on the mattress half naked, exhausted from her debilitating cries and the whiskey running through her veins.

She woke with a pounding headache as the morning light was just beginning to shine through the sheer curtains. Part of her desperately hoped all of it was a nightmare. Not just the interaction with Walker, but that... everything was some fantasy her subconscious had made up to torture herself. Perhaps she would open her eyes to find herself snuggled against her father's side or soothed by the deep snores of her uncle.

The sight of the saloon ceiling as she opened her eyes confirmed that it wasn't a nightmare.

Everything was real. Her waking hours were so torturous that she prayed it was a nightmare. It was a childish dream to hope it was all just her subconscious playing a trick on her.

She slid off the mattress, standing with shaky legs as she reached for her pants. With one foot in each pant leg, she slid them over her aching legs, the only thing keeping her upright being the promise of alcohol downstairs.

She needed something more to numb the thoughts of shame running through her, and the painful clench in her chest at the constant reminder that this was all her reality. The only family she knew was gone. She was alone.

The promising thought of drinking herself silly was not a fantasy she could indulge in, as after only a couple of drinks, the bartender decided she had enough and threw her out onto the street.

The harsh New Orleans heat was not kind to her. She stumbled forward, suddenly overcome with nausea, and threw up all over the cobblestone, coughing and sputtering over herself.

Rosalie stood to her full height and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. People walked by her, grumbling and giving her sideways looks as they tried to maintain their distance.

With a deep sigh, Rosalie walked over to Blitz and patted his neck. The horse snorted at the sight of her and turned his face away. She could only assume it was because she reeked. It was true that she smelt like filth, but she couldn't find it in her to care.

"I know, I'm sorry, boy," Rosalie said quietly as she rubbed his neck. She pulled an oatcake from her saddlebag and fed it to Blitz, his tail swishing in appreciation. "You're the only one who knows me best these days. You miss Daddy and Uncle Kurt too? I know I do." She said.

Of course, Blitz didn't respond, only looking at her with his large black eyes as his tail swished, munching on the oatcake.

Rosalie sighed deeply and gave him one last pat, before walking over to the saddle and slotting her foot in the stirrup. She swung herself atop him and grabbed hold of the reins. With a quiet yip, she urged him into a slow trot, looking for the next saloon where she could get a drink, as this one wasn't serving its purpose anymore.

Rosalie rode for a few minutes, the streets becoming sparse as she trotted along, the busy people weaving like ants and passing carriages weaning. The sun was hot, even with her hat on her head, and it made her feel even more sluggish in her hungover state. Everything was uncomfortable. Even somewhere cool would be better than this.

She didn't feel like returning to camp now, so she needed to find something to do with her time, even if it wasn't getting drunk as a skunk.

Nothing seemed interesting enough to make her stop. It was hard to pay attention to anything when she felt so uncomfortable from her churning stomach and the intense heat of the southern sun. That was, until she came upon a large cathedral.

She pulled Blitz to a stop and looked up at the massive, white building, hand on top of her hat so as not to let it fall as she craned her neck.

The cathedral stood tall and proud, the white Missouri limestone a sight to see. It was well maintained and clean, the octagonal steeple reaching high toward the clouds.