[ Jess drinks on her way out, not one to look back. She mills around in her bathroom, whiskey perched on the toilet tank as she goes through the motions preceding sleep. she can't help looking at herself, finally, after she spits out her toothpaste and rinses her mouth. all her features are there but Jess isn't, like some impressionist art student's first year portrait. she sees smears of makeup contouring her face and cutting it apart, lifting here, tucking there. Jess nearly spits up the huge gulp of whiskey she takes; with the minty toothpaste lining her mouth, it goes down like a bad shot. she cups some water in her hands and splashes her face with it before leaving, finding the light switch by touch and shutting it off, then opening her eyes.
there's less than a glass's worth of liquor left as she ambles into her bedroom, hooking the door with her ankle and nudging it closed. she hasn't bothered to in ages and now there's a stubborn gap from damage to the hinge or the threshold or there's just a shirt on the floor she doesn't know. what's important is that there is a bottle of rum in her bedside drawer. she sets it on top of the night stand and then crawls under her blanket, resting on her side. Jess puts the whiskey bottle in front of her on the mattress for something to look at, idly twisting the base in her fingers. when the numbness wears off, she'll empty it, and then nurse the rum until she hears the door close. it could be hours. her limbs feel locked there, each breath piling more weight into her until it becomes onerous merely to think of moving. it's as close to comfortable as she gets and it's not so bad, compared to sleeping or crying.
one will definitely lead to the other, if she gives in, but she only has to stay awake to within four hours of when she expects he goes under, so that he ought to be gone REM hits. and if he isn't, she's been conditioned to be a quiet sleeper, no matter what she dreams about. it's the shit she ends up breaking that makes the noise. ]
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there's less than a glass's worth of liquor left as she ambles into her bedroom, hooking the door with her ankle and nudging it closed. she hasn't bothered to in ages and now there's a stubborn gap from damage to the hinge or the threshold or there's just a shirt on the floor she doesn't know. what's important is that there is a bottle of rum in her bedside drawer. she sets it on top of the night stand and then crawls under her blanket, resting on her side. Jess puts the whiskey bottle in front of her on the mattress for something to look at, idly twisting the base in her fingers. when the numbness wears off, she'll empty it, and then nurse the rum until she hears the door close. it could be hours. her limbs feel locked there, each breath piling more weight into her until it becomes onerous merely to think of moving. it's as close to comfortable as she gets and it's not so bad, compared to sleeping or crying.
one will definitely lead to the other, if she gives in, but she only has to stay awake to within four hours of when she expects he goes under, so that he ought to be gone REM hits. and if he isn't, she's been conditioned to be a quiet sleeper, no matter what she dreams about. it's the shit she ends up breaking that makes the noise. ]