After The Storm | Grey's Anatomy

// VI. //

"Is this a scream of help, or are we celebrating?" Joe handed me shots of vodka. When I said shots, I mean multiple of them.

"Both." I vaguely answered, leaving a trail of unsureness.

We are celebrating my pity life, and screaming to the outside world for help. Thank Jesus that I'll have my day off tomorrow. Or else I'd be sticking the wrong needle to the wrong person or prescribing dairy milks chocolate to lactose intolerant kids. The clock struck twelve about two shots ago; the place has started getting clammy with sweats of the crowds around me. "It smells like odor and alcohol. How do you not throw up?" I asked Joe.

"You work with blood everyday. How do you not throw up?"

"True."

The TV was displaying one of those irrelevant late night show, where the hosts looked like they are underpaid and are forced to do their jobs. The news they gave are mostly recycled news from earlier that day, or are about low-watt blenders made by pine nuts. My phone vibrated, and took my attention away from the TV.

It was Alex. I wasn't sure what he's about to say. He's probably asking me if I want coffee or some sorts. But I'm not on duty, and I don't need coffee. So he can shut up.

The phone won't stop vibrating after five minutes, and it's starting to get under my skin.  I decided to pick it up, for the sake of myself. He is such a rock headed little bastard. When will he learn that when I don't pick up on the second ring, it means I'm doing it on purpose!

I pressed the green phone button from under his name. "What, Alex?" I regretted the fact that I sound annoyed. Gosh, I probably sounded like a bitter 5 years old whose mom refuses to buy candy for her.

"Where are you?"

"Where are you?" The drink were starting to take a toll on me. "I'm at Joe's."

"Amelia asked me about your whereabouts. She texted me that you haven't come home. She's worried, Mer. Text the girl back." I'm worried that you've had a brain injury and have turned stupid!  I was so tempted to reply. Why would I care about her, or making her worried? She's safe and sound at my house. Isn't that enough?

I groaned to the microphone. "Since you have been talking to her a lot, why don't you just pass the message along."

"Says who?"

"Says me. You're aaaall so in love with her. I don't blame you though. It's normal human response. Cheers," I said raising my glass, and bringing the rim to my lips. I swallowed the liquid and flinched a little. I guess there's no getting used with alcohol.

***

I took the cab home; I wasn't that stupid. As soon as I arrived home, I opened the door with my own keys. Thank God I don't have to make any more conversation with my step-sister. Legally, she's not even my step-sister anymore. Just a stranger with spitting image of my husband. Totally normal.

I climbed up to my room, and was greeted once again by the sighting of my comfortable king sized bed. I stared up at the ceiling in silence. I'm so tired (and drunk), but there are so many things to think about. Like, what should I have for breakfast tomorrow? The last time I went for grocery shopping was two weeks ago. Which bath bombs will I use? Where did I kept my waffle maker? When will my best friend be back? When will my step-sister move out? What kind of socks should I buy at Target tomorrow?

These questions went poof poof gone when Amelia entered my room. Oh my god, save me. I'm not drunk enough to want to talk to her! "Hi, Meredith. Are you okay?"

"Peachy."

"Do you need anything?"

"Uh, yes. Peace? Solitude?" I probably sounded rude, but I'll just blame alcohol for that. Tomorrow. I just need her to step out of my safe zone, and wander somewhere else. "Thank you," I said as she closed the door.

Later that night, I received a text about a guy who was stabbed by sewage pipe from Owen. He said that it was cool, yet disgusting. That sounded like a comment of a fifth grader's science project, I wanted to say but stayed silent. "I wish I could be there, Hunt." I sighed with eyes starting to shut down on its own.