Her skeleton was trying to jump out of her skin. Her search wasn't going at all as she had planned. Box after box had turned up no result, and she was beginning to doubt her own sanity. Four hours, and she still couldn’t find it. Her mouth was going dry now, and her hands were shaking. Beads of sweat pooled along her upper lip and tricked down her temples as her heart pounded. Her heart had been pounding for hours, days, months. It would never stop; this was the part they had warned her about.
Skirts and sweaters she hadn't worn in years were strewn haphazardly across her carpet. A different pair of shoes lay in each corner of the room. Sensible navy blue flats in the east. The pair of black stilettos that her mother always hated in the west. Classy women don't wear shoes like that. Who do you think you are, a hooker? Shut up, Mother. Just shut up. She could no longer see the shoes in the northern and southern corners. They were covered with discarded items that mattered even less than the shoes. She stopped for a moment and surveyed the damage she had done. As she looked at the articles of clothing littering her room, she was bombarded with wild prints and bright colors, reminders of why she hadn't worn them in years. She never could throw anything away, not the hooker stilettos, not the polka dot mini skirt, not the loser she had been seeing for the last six months, and certainly not the bottle. The bottle was still here, it had to be.
Two hours and six cigarettes later, she came across a hat box tucked away on the top shelf of her closet. She had never owned a hat in her life. The lid of the pink and white striped box was lifted by shaking hands, its contents met with tearing eyes and held breath.
Nestled among layers of tissue paper brighter than the garments she could never throw away was the bottle. Crumpling to the floor, she took a moment to take in the sight of this gift she had left for herself. Brown and smooth, the bottle was still nearly full of what she had been thirsting for some three long years. She traced one finger along the label and looked at her vague reflection in the cloudy glass. Lifting the bottle, she unscrewed the cap and was met with the pungent aroma that had characterized six years of her life. She had told herself three years ago that she would keep the bottle as a reminder of her last drink, of what she could overcome. She knew now, when holding the bottle felt so right, that she had been really keeping the bottle for this very moment. Her heart had been pounding for three years and her skeleton was trying to escape her skin. The smooth circularity of the bottle’s mouth met hers like two old friends meeting for a kiss. Her mind raced.
No one fires you. Just do it, you know you can. They all said you
couldn’t handle it. Prove them wrong.
No, I can’t, I won’t. It’s not
supposed to be like this.
One sip won’t kill you.
What about him?
A bottle rested between her knees as she slapped his had away from the steering wheel. He had been trying to steer from the passenger seat for the past ten minutes, and it was beginning to annoy her. “Stop it. Stop it, I’m fine. I told you I was fine when I left and I’m fine now. Just let me drive in peace.”
“You’re not fine. I never should have listened to you,” he kept telling her. “Pull over. Let me drive. And for God’s sakes put the bottle away. You’re too damn old for a security blanket.”
With every word he said she grew more infuriated. The black stiletto strapped to her foot pressed harder on the gas pedal as he tried to grab the wheel once more. She momentarily forgot about the steering wheel, jerking out of his reach. Tires screeched, he screamed, and a telephone pole rushed to meet them.
Smash. The bottle hit the wall with a deafening crash that echoed
throughout the empty room. Amber liquid rolled down cream colored walls, smooth
as if it had been going down her throat. Brown shards glittered in the
lamplight like raindrops on pavement. She got up and went to look for some
paper towels and the vacuum.