don't say you love me... | camren au

i say i'm ok (but i can't fake it)

A/N: This chapter contains alcohol abuse, implied/ referenced self-harm, and implied/ referenced rape! So please don't read this chapter if any of that might potentially trigger you!

For everyone who wants to read, I hope you like it :) votes and comments would be neato.

Oh, one more thing: this is a flashback. I just wanted to explain what was up with Lauren.

*

A loud rattling noise.

Several bottles falling off of the table, one of them having been moved by a breeze coming through an open window.

A loud enough sound to wake someone up and give them a heart attack. Enough to make someone fall out of bed. Enough to make someone get up immediately.

At least, one would think so.

Lauren, however, only distantly hears it. It's nothing but a small inconvenience disturbing her desperately needed sleep. She's not bothered enough to open her eyes. She knows it'd hurt. Her head is already spinning, and she isn't exactly keen on the spinning and the pain that comes with it intensifying.

"Sun'lass," she mutters incoherently. Nobody's there to hear her, anyway. No matter what she says, nobody will listen.

"Fuh." It's supposed to be some sort of course word, probably. It proceeds Lauren's attempt to open her eyes without being so overwhelmed by pain that she blacks out.

This has happened before. And not just once. Multiple times. Dozens of times. More times than normal people, people who aren't addicted, could handle. Lauren spending the night getting so wasted she passes out on the couch, in the middle of empty and half empty bottles of whiskey, vodka, and beer. With the occasional bottle of wine playing into the mix.

Her deep slumber will be interrupted by one or the other bottle falling down on the floor – she doesn't have the time or strength to close the window – and she'll try to wake up, get up like a normal person would. But she won't get to.

Her body is fighting the toxic substance she consumed a few hours ago, and her body won't tolerate bright environments yet. Lauren's head slumps back onto the back of her black sofa.

She wakes up again a while later. The need to go to the bathroom has awoken her. It's become too strong to ignore.

There's just one problem. Lauren doesn't go to the bathroom. Not anymore. She can't physically get herself to.

But, like any good alcoholic, she's prepared. Obviously. Since she hasn't been out of her living room in– in a long time.

She contemplates resting on the couch for a few more minutes, just to gain some more strength, but eventually, she has to get up. She doesn't want her pants to get wet.

(They're already dirty enough.)

Why she still has pants on, she doesn't know exactly. They're an inconvenience. Like rattling bottles in the middle of the night. Morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

Lauren manages to get her legs and lower body off of the black leather, at least. Takes her pants off. She doesn't know where she's got the energy for it from, but– she manages. Then, she turns her head as much as she can right now. Luckily finds the object she's looking for right away. She reaches for the admittedly very full bucket to her right and grabs its handle. Pulls it closer to her. Until she can use it. She pulls down her panties somehow, and does her business.