Substitution

One Shot

Stop

A drink. Two drinks. Three drinks. Four drinks. Number five coming in stronger, faster, and I couldn't even taste it anymore. It's just like water now. A tenth drink slid down my throat, and I held the 11th glass of vodka to my lips and I felt the loss of it when a stranger's hand lowered the rim from my mouth with a blurry voice. I muttered a drunken plea for him to stop trying to get in my way every time I wanted to drink, and his voice grew agitated as I sloppily spilled the booze over my dress.

Edward sighed irritably as he grabbed the martini glass out of my clammy hands and tossed my painkillers aside onto the floor. He placed his bowler hat onto the table and wrapped his fingers around my wrists to restrain me from reaching for another drink.

"Rita, stop."

"Oh, sentiment," I managed to slur in disdain.

"I tried to stop, it doesn't work, let me go."

"Have you ever considered that you're an alcoholic?"

"Shut up." I muttered. "I am, and iff you don't mind just let me do my thing and you do yours. Stay out of my way."

I attempted to stand in order to get the bottle from the table which looking at it, it was only two inches away; but getting to my feet to reach it...it might as well have been down a hallway.

Edward uttered a sigh and held me by my shoulders, steadied me.

"Stop, stop," Edward remarked to me clear-headedly, and he had lowered his voice to a tone that was calm and collected, as if I had been shot and injured and he was steadying me on my feet.

"Rita, honey, I am trying to help you. But I think I'll have to help you in a way that you're going to hate me-"

"I don't hate you," I said quietly, barely hearing the words come out of my mouth. "Just let me handle this my own way."

"Rita, you're drunk. You handle this your own way, you die. I have watched you for three weeks now shove gallons of booze and dozens of pills down your throat."

"Don't need the lecture." I told him, and I tried to push him away.

"Yes, you do," Edward said. "You're grieving, I get it. And this is your way of coping, but this isn't going to bring your daughter back-"

"You don't know what it's like." I whispered.

"No, I don't, but I have a much, much, better idea of how to make you feel better than idly standing by and watching you get wasted. Besides, it doesn't bode well for my business, in which case I need you sober."

"Yeah, and what's that?" I whispered in my drunken stupor.

Edward smiled really wide, and he set his soft, pointed fingers gingerly under my chin. He and I met each other's eyes.

"Let me help you by finding the man who killed your little girl," Edward said.

"And how are you going to do that, Ed?" I sighed, though my chest rose with hope and relief.

"Oh, you must be drunk to ask that question." Edward said softly, "I'm the Riddler. I'm quite sure that I'll come up with something."

"And what happens," I breathed, "when we find him?"

Edward grinned, and he lightly pressed his lips against mine. I sloppily kissed him back, and I heard him in the sultry voice I had grown accustomed to hearing him use when giving his best answers to his own riddles,

"We kill him," he said. "Together."