It’s the wine talking, darling.

She stares out, in the distance.

Nothing is the way it was.

Nothing’s ever been the way it was supposed to be.

There’s an empty place and an empty glass.

There’s silence where there were voices, and now there’s the loudness of the clock’s arms.


Every second is a waste, every wasted second is a nail on the cross of her burdens.

Still, frozen in time.

There’s dust where there was a spilled drink. The drops are falling a world apart from each other.


There’s no one when there used to be too many.

She wishes she was born rich and went to Eton, so for once being a twat would be an advantage. No rules, no laws, no cheap bottles or third class drugs.

Only the best, for the worst.

She’s starting the motion.

Walk to the shop: one motion. Extend the arm to pick the bottle: one motion. Walk back home: one motion. Applying force and rotation to the cap: one motion. Pouring and bringing to the mouth: one motion.

She thinks, and dreams, and hopes for the best, but she carries the worst on her shoulders.

Only the worst for who aspire to the best.

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