(Tabatha's P.O.V.)
You know, most rational people don't wander the streets late at night on the city sidewalks, so drunk your mind sloshes together and the whole world tilts on its side.
I am not one of those rational people.
Bottle of whisky in one hand, high heels in the other, I take a great swig, knocking it back. It burns. The night is dark, cars zipping by like little comets, alleyways looming with shadows.
A few people pay me concerned glances and then hurry away. I don't blame them. I must look like a mess.
Sparkly red party dress dirtied with mud, mascara running wild down my face. Walking barefoot in the dark. I hiccup, and then laugh, slow and full of distain.
A few more people back politely away.
I know I'm going to regret this in the morning. But right now, I don't care.
"I don't n-need him *hic* any...anyway..." My words are weird and thick on my tongue, and everything's suddenly so blurry. I'm tired.
I'm so, so tired, I don't know where I am—suddenly the panic hits me like a fist in the chest, emotions causing tears to spill down my cheeks. I collapse to my knees on the city sidewalk leaving red streaks of blood.
Crying, sobbing, the whiskey bottle forgotten, heels tossed aside. Images flash through my mind, memories of tonight: of seeing him with her, watching him run his hands through her hair, arm protectively slung around her shoulders. They laughed and they giggled and I—
"I'm such a fool." The heels of my hands work desperately to wipe away my tears. I'm choking, sputtering. My knee burns, my heart twists painfully at the thought of them together, at the thought that he doesn't need me as much as I thought he did.
He doesn't want me like I do him.
...Everything's gone to shit, as Jaida would say. Jaida. I can't even call her, my phone had died long before; I always did have a tendency to have it on low battery.
But that didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was him. Him, him, him. And the way he looked at her, a way he wouldn't look at me.
Everything ached.
"Hey..."
I look up, blinking the tears out of my eyes. Clearing my vision. A man stands, rather uncomfortably, beside me. He's wearing a dark suit and a grim look, like he's talking to some psycho and would rather not.
But he is.
I swallow. My throat's dry, parched. The alcohol didn't exactly help. "Hey."
It comes out all strangled and wrong, but the man doesn't seem to notice. Or, if he does, he's polite enough to ignore it.
"You need help." He speaks it as a statement, not a question, his voice final. He runs a hand through tawny blonde hair that'd been previously slicked back, thinking. "I can grab you a hotel room, you can sober up in the morning and—"
"Wowza..." I bat my eyelashes at him, half-mocking, half-surprised. "You sure move fast."
His blushes, fiddling with his sleeves. "No. No, that's not what I—it's not what I meant, I swear." He clears his throat, trying to regain composure. It doesn't work well. "I would never."
"Ouch. That last bit stung." I talk hoarsely, and my laugh is even hoarser. He seems taken aback by my response, pressing lips into a tight, white line.
"It has nothing to do with you."
"Haha... *hic*... because who—who—could turn down this?" I motion to myself, hands lingering over my curves, the my once immaculate dress.
Oh, wait. Someone did. Someone did.
And then I'm crying again, a blubbering, snotty mess. I can't breathe. Everything's so hot, the night air suddenly so humid.
What's wrong with me? Am I broken somehow?
A gentle hand sets on my back, large and shockingly enough, calloused. I'm still crying, even as he stiffly rubs circles on my back.
"I don't really know how to, uh, go about this but—"
I spew vomit all over the place, and he quickly recoils, snatching his hand back. Wiping the puke from my mouth, I imagine if I could see him, his face would be pinched in disgust.
I don't blame him.
I'm disgusting.
"Come on." His voice is gentle, nothing like the firm, strict tone of before. He carefully pulls me to my feet, where I wobble a bit, like a giraffe learning to walk. Leaning on him, I can hear his heart beat, feel the muscles in his chest.
"Why..." I cry, quaking. "Why are you—why are you doing this?"
I don't understand.
He goes quiet for a moment, and we walk slowly, toddling. I almost think he won't answer.
Then, in a voice so soft I hardly hear, a whisper against my hair, he replies. "I don't know."
