Page 57

Drunkard

I pick my glass up off the table, swirling the drink. I stare at the motion before taking a generous amount into my mouth. The liquid fire makes its painful way down my throat, and I can't help but love it.

Pushing a rough hand through my messy hair, I look up at the mirror.

Dead emerald eyes meet my own. Tousled chestnut hair is pushed up recklessly on top of that unknown man's head.

Premature wrinkles in the making have me turning from side to side to get a better look. Their skin is too pale, and lips too chapped.

There is no mistaking the beauty that this person can have once had, but that is gone now.

Is that really me?

I run a hand down my face, glaring at the drink in my hand.

Can I fix this?

In one hand is my glass of liquor, and in the other is my chance at a new lifestyle. Both are begging me to choose them. It feels almost as though the other mocks my lifestyle with the other.

Which will I choose?

Can I even choose?

Before my drunken stupor can control my irrational thoughts, I place the glass down and dial the one number that has always stuck in my mind.

I feel dazed as the ringing beings. For a moment I'm paranoid that I hit my head and that's where the ringing is coming from. Though, after my initial panic, they pick up on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" they greet with a hostile tone.

"Help me," I croak. My voice hoarse from whatever I did recently. Drunk sobbing, probably.

"Please tell me you're not dying." I feel an unknown feeling bubble up, I am too drunk to understand it, as I smile at their concerned tone.

I laugh, and then instantly begin to cough. "I need help. I'm an alcoholic, I look dead, and I want out. Badly."

"What can I do? I'm just one person, I can get you rehab. I can get you help. But why call me?"

"Because you're the only one."

"What does that even mean?"

"I just - just - help me. Please."

"I'll be over in a second. But when I get there, you better talk."

I nod even though I know they can't see me. "I'm drunk though, so you better hurry up. I might not talk otherwise."

"Bastard," they laugh scornfully, and I can feel the feeling bubbling up again, making me smile a little as they hang up.

What am I smiling for? I wipe off the star-struck look and splash water on my face to sober up. The least I can do is try to fix a little of my appearance.

--

The door swings open, without so much as a knock, and the tall blonde glares at me from the doorway. In my drunken mind, even though it is a little better than before, I catch the way the glare suits his stoic personality. And how those dress pants fit so well on him. Sooooo well.

"You do look dead," he finally compliments, and I can only blink dumbly. Why had I thought this had been a good idea?

"Thank you, Harper." I grin, and stumble a little as I make my way over to him. Would it be better to act more drunk than before? It can't hurt, can it?

He clears his throat a little, eyes looking at something over my shoulder. "Why are you only in your boxers?"

I glance down at my lack of clothing in wonder. "I don't really know. I didn't even realize until you pointed it out." My cheeks redden - I really hadn't noticed. But I probably wouldn't have changed how I was dressed anyway.