A Neat Mess

36. Clarity in a Glass

Sam stepped into her dimly lit house, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. It had been one of those days—the kind that felt like it would never end, marked by a moment of humiliation she couldn't shake off. Her cheeks still flushed from the memory, she walked straight to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of gin, barely noticing how her hands trembled. As she poured the clear liquid into a glass, it was almost as if she was explaining to someone invisible.

"I don't drink like this," she muttered. "Usually, it's just once or twice a year, at some work party or wedding," and she definitely didn't drink to get drunk. But tonight was different. Tonight, she needed to forget.

She downed the gin, the burn trailing down her throat, and poured another without hesitation. There was something dangerously liberating in letting go—just this once. As the alcohol began to dull the edges of her shame, Sam realized that this was new territory, and she wasn't sure how far she was willing to let herself fall.

Sam poured another glass, her gaze locked on the swirling liquid as the truth hit her like a punch to the gut. Ben's mother had been right all along. His grief over Lucille's death spoke volumes—he had loved her deeply. And now it made sense why Jenna had hated her.

Sam quickly refilled her glass, each sip pushing the pieces of the puzzle into place. Lucille must have resented Jenna after falling for Ben. Maybe that's why she hurt her. Jenna, a living reminder of Sam and Ben's bond, might've stoked Lucille's jealousy. Or perhaps Lucille had tried to push Sam out, make her seem like an unfit mother. But Jenna... Jenna had seen through it all. What if she'd decided to take matters into her own hands, solving both problems in one terrifying move?

Sam's thoughts drifted to her mother. She could almost see her, sitting across the room with that familiar, knowing expression. Her mother had always thrived on being right, especially about her darkest predictions. Sam had dismissed those warnings, and now she was paying the price.

"If only you had more heart than logic," she whispered, her voice thick with frustration and sorrow. "I wish we could talk without it tearing me apart." But even as she longed for that impossible conversation, the idea of facing her mother now felt unbearable. She took another sip, chasing comfort in the sharp burn of gin.

From that moment, time blurred into the monotonous rhythm of filling and draining her glass. The room dimmed around her until Ben's voice finally pierced through the haze, pulling her from the void. He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide in shock. He had just returned from the park with Jenna and was greeted by the sight of Sam, slumped unconscious, the gin bottle nearly empty.

Ben was the only one who drank in this house, and he knew for certain he hadn't touched that bottle. The woman before him—a stranger in her vulnerability—was not the Sam he thought he knew. In all the years they'd been together, Sam had only been drunk once, and it hadn't ended well. Ben had often thought that it would take a tragedy to stir some deeper emotion in Sam.

Hearing her light snoring now eased his immediate concern, though he knew it was only a matter of time before she'd be sick. He gently carried her upstairs and propped her head up on the bed. Sam's eyes fluttered open for a split second, and she groggily asked, "Where is Jenna?" before suddenly bolting upright, as though jolted by an electric shock.

"She's in her room," Ben reassured her.

The moment Sam heard that Jenna was safe, she collapsed back into unconsciousness.

In the middle of the night, Ben awoke to find Sam missing from the bed. Since Lucille's death, he hadn't been able to bring himself to sleep in the bed that had once been hers, spending most nights on the couch instead. But tonight, he had stayed in Sam's bed to keep a closer eye on her. She could've just gone to the bathroom, but given how deeply she had been sleeping, something didn't sit right with him. Ben hesitated for a moment before deciding to check on her.

As he stepped out of the bedroom, faint whispers caught his attention, coming from around the corner where Jenna's room was. He couldn't see who was speaking, but the voice was unmistakably female. Instinctively, he made no sound as he moved down the hallway, a creeping sense of caution taking over. Though it was likely nothing, his protective instincts urged him to be careful, just in case it wasn't.

Ben quickly turned his head to get a better look. He saw Sam standing in the doorframe of Jenna's room, her body resting against the frame. He caught a fragment of what sounded like, "No, it is not going to ever happen," followed by a pause. It seemed Jenna had been asking for something, but Ben couldn't make out the details. Sam's posture was unsettling—she was hunched forward, her head drooping as if it were too heavy for her neck. She appeared to be moaning softly, and Ben thought she might be crying.

Sam repeated, "Look at her. You're not going to hurt her... not this one."

Ben's heart raced as he pressed his back against the wall. Was there someone else in the room? He couldn't see anyone, but the situation felt increasingly ominous. As he heard the door close and Sam's footsteps moving toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, Ben grabbed the nearest solid object—a small marble replica of David's statue. He readied himself, prepared to use it if necessary.

Ben approached Jenna's room and opened the door cautiously. Jenna was sound asleep in her bed, the window shut, and the room empty. He checked under the bed and in the closet but found no one else. Could Sam be sleepwalking again?

He hurried to the bathroom to ensure Sam wasn't in danger of falling or hurting herself. Just then, the bathroom door opened, and Sam walked out, her eyes wide open, though she looked dishevelled and exhausted.

"Hey, are you okay?" Ben asked, puzzled and wondering if he might be sleepwalking himself.

"I needed to use the bathroom," Sam replied, sounding somewhat alert.

"I heard sounds and thought someone was talking. Were you talking in your sleep?"

Sam blinked and coughed lightly. Her thoughts were hazy from the alcohol. "I think I might have been talking to myself."

Ben, now more sceptical, pressed on. "You said you weren't going to hurt her?"

"Don't know. I'm tired, going to bed," Sam said, staggering back to the bedroom.

Ben followed but couldn't sleep. Sam's loud snoring and the unsettling memory of what he'd seen kept him awake. Had Sam hurt a child before? Sam had a history of all sorts of night terrors, but this one seemed like something else.

Ben turned in bed and checked the time. He had been awake for hours, watching Sam's face buried in her pillow and wondering how she was breathing.

Ben's gaze shifted to the small table with the hutch, a fixture in their home for as long as he had known Sam. It was the one rule in their house—no one was allowed to touch it. At first, the restriction had unsettled him, but over time, he had grown accustomed to the odd collection of objects. Each item had been carefully chosen by Sam during her younger years, when she had been on a spiritual journey. Though her beliefs had since faded into scepticism, she still cleaned the shrine with unwavering care, as if it held a significance that neither of them could fully explain.

Ben was troubled by the sense that years of trust were crumbling. One wrong move could dismantle the fragile trust built over the years. He still couldn't make sense of her self-directed conversation from that night.