Strolson Twins

Chapter II (Sad Thoughts)

Alex's POV

After Asher left with my wallet, I started feeling slightly depressed. I hoped that he didn't spend all of my money, that whiskey chugging jerk.

I wondered around Mable's cat infested house, trying to find the kitchen without tripping over stupid felines. As you can see, I'm really not a cat person in the least bit. Well, I really don't like pets much. The only animal that I have ever liked is Dutch. I really don't like any other dogs, cats, birds, ect.

Speak of the devil, Dutch appeared by my side.

I patted his head, "Hey boy," I said, "Can you lead me to the kitchen?"

Let's just say that Dutch is a smarter then average giant dog. He was suppose to be a seeing eye dog, but the place that was training him shut down before he could find an owner. We saw him at the shelter and the rest is history.

Anyway, our dog showed me the way to the kitchen in Mabel's huge haunted-house-like mansion. Not for the first time, I wondered how such a crazy cat lady got away with all of this cash. Lady be rich.

I walked into the kitchen to see several full bottles of liqueur on the table. Mable was tsking and muttering to herself.

"How did he find it? I hid it! Mable hid it well from taller one!" she said.

"Hid what?" I asked, tipping my head to the side.

She whipped around to glare at me, "Taller version of you stole Mabel's whiskey," she said angrily.

Oh, did I mention that she tends to talk in the third person? I already explain that she belongs in a loony bin.

I rubbed the back of my neck, "Yeah, sorry about that. He really doesn't think before acting," stupid Asher!

Asher, I officially hate you for the moment!

Mable sighed, "Short one might as well drink the rest," she snorted.

Short one? SHORT ONE! I'm 6'1". Fucking 6'1"! I'm not short at all! Asher is just freakishly tall! Besides, I can't help it if he absorbed all height genetics from mom and father. Mom, father. Oh. Suddenly, a drink was sounding pleasant.

"Well, I might just take you up on that," I replied and grabbed three bottles of her liquor.

As I walked back to the living room (I figured out the layout of her mansion, kind of), I looked at the labels on the bottles. One was a vintage wine, one was vodka, and the last one was Sex on the Beach. My face reddened. Why the hell would that 100-year-old bat have Sex on the Beach? Woah, bad choice of words.. Weird mental image.

I shuttered and quickly erased the thought from my head.

I sat down on the linoleum floor, hard. I opened the fine wine and took a sip.

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Around halfway through the wine, I began to feel fuzzy. After finishing the vodka, I could no longer feel my legs. When the Sex on the Beach was gone, I was thinking even more saddening thoughts then I had been before.

Was mom's suicide our fault?

Were we not there to support her like we should have been?

Were we not good enough for her?

Did she hate us?

Why did she leave us?

I wrapped my arms around my knees, bringing them to my chest, "Why'd you leave me, mommy?"

For the first time in two months, I cried. What a terrible drunk I was.

Somehow, Mable got me to bed, I was so wasted, that I didn't even notice my brother walk into the house.