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You read about it first when you were very young. You wanted your mother to stop it with her damned drinking. Not only did the drinking scare you, but the way she acted afterwards did, too. Before you gave up on it, you would try to find a way to get her to quit. That seemed easiest, you thought. Just dump out all the wine and the liquor and the whiskey. You would hold back her hair and make her soup and get her aspirin while she recovered. You learned in health class that it would be about a week or two until she would be up on her feet again.
But when you proposed the idea at a moment when she was as close to sober as she would get, she just looked at you sadly and bowed her head, sipping at her margarita.
Every time.
So you stopped trying.
If she didn’t have it in her to discontinue her drinking habits for her own daughter, there was nothing you could do.
You really didn’t think you’d need to remember that, so you forgot all but the definition. You forgot the ‘side effects.’ You forgot the ‘cautions.’ You forgot about all of it. Why would you ever want to remember something like that, though, really? If she wouldn’t listen to you then why bother. It was all a ridiculous mess.
You even forgot the symptoms of ‘alcohol withdrawal syndrome.’
+
“Rose? Rose, love, come on, get up, please,” a soft voice murmurs. You feel the breath on your ear but it sounds far away, and you lift your head from your arm, dazed. “There we go.” An arm snakes around your waist and lifts you to your feet with a heave. Another one comes around from the other side, this one larger and closer to your hip. The smaller hand tightens. It tickles. You giggle. “Okay, here, let’s help you back to our room, okay?”
You drape your arms around two sets of shoulders and let them almost-drag you down the dark hall. You’ve just enough sense left to know that any attempt to walk would be quite the mistake. Perhaps, that part clinging to that sanity is screaming at you to stop, to drop the bottle you clutch in your left fist, the glass you hold in your right. In all honesty, it doesn’t matter much, not anymore. That’s sort of the point. Things matter. Things matter far too much for comfort.
Drown it out, drown it out, drown
it
out.
You bend your elbow and twist your neck to try to reach your lips to the neck of the bottle. A hand swats at yours; the bottle falls, hits the metal floor, shatters. The remaining red wine splashes up and gets on your skirt, and you groan.
“Hey, Ro-Lal, don’t you be drinking that shit,” he snaps. It’s Dave, wow. You didn’t even notice.
“Dave,” you whine, drawing out the vowel. “Why not?”
He sighs and says nothing.
And suddenly you’re flopping onto the large bed you share with your girlfriend. The one who is now pulling your hood over your head, removing your dress until you’re in just tights and a bra, tucking you in, kissing your forehead. Kanaya doesn’t kiss you when you’re drunk. Not on the lips. She hates the taste. The smell.
She heads to the doorway, flicking off the light. The one in the hallway is still on, though Dave and Kanaya’s silhouettes block out most of it. As much as you wouldn’t like to, the room isn’t large, and you can hear them, whispering.
“Kanaya, we’ve gotta do something. I’m not just gonna sit back and watch her throw away her intelligence.”
“She isn’t. This simply veils it.”
“It’s great that you’ve fooled yourself into that little doomed timeline, but you need to snap out of it. She’s killing herself there. She drinks bottles and bottles of that crap every day.”
“I know.”
“Then fucking do something, because she’s obviously tearing herself apart. Who knows what her liver looks like. Hell. It’s probably black as a rock.”
“Stop it, Dave. Stop. We just need to… to keep her in there for a while.”
“What, make her go cold turkey?”
“If by that you mean cease her alcohol intake completely, then yes.”
There’s a pause. “That’s dangerous.”
“I thought you said you wanted to help her.”
“I do.”
“Is there another way?”
“I guess not. It isn’t like we’ve got a support group or some shit like that on this cold-ass rock.”
“Dave?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage her alone.”
“What about Karkat?”
“He’ll be fine for a while. I’m sure he will. Rose needs you here, though, Dave.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
The door clicks closed, and a weight settles onto the bed behind you. Arms wrap around your waist, tug you backwards until you’re flush against Kanaya’s torso. She nuzzles her nose into your hair and breathes in deeply, fingers tapping softly on your skin. She whispers a quiet I love you and then you’re gone.
+
Fucking hangovers.
Some wine will clear it, at least. You toss your legs over the side of the bed, sliding off with a groan. Your feet are unsteady, every muscle aches, your head throbs to the stuck-in-your-head bass song Dave showed you the other day. Jesus Christ, you think, swiping a hand down your face and shuffling across the room. The cupboard where you keep some gewürztraminer is empty, you find, throwing open the door. That’s new. You almost remember stocking it up last night—or was it the night before? It doesn’t really matter. Maybe there’ll be some pinot noir somewhere else.
Heh. Noir.
“You’re not gonna find anything.”
You spin on your heel (and stumble; you fall into the wall) to see Dave, standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, ankles crossed, hood and cape off. His expression would be totally blank if not for the small downward tilt of the corner of his mouth.
You recall that you’re in leggings and you aren’t wearing a shirt, but you can’t really find it in you to care.
“What d’you mean?” you ask, lazy with your speech. “I jus’ want a glass of wine, Dave, really.”
Dave shakes his head. He studies you for another moment before telling you, “There’s no alcohol in this room, Rose, and not in the bathroom, either. Not even behind the shower curtain. I’ll be back later with some breakfast.” And with that, he leaves.
The door closes.
Kanaya emerges from the door that connects the room to the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body. “Good afternoon, dear,” she says, kissing your cheek as she passes.
Of course it’s afternoon. How ridiculous of you to consider waking in the morning. That hasn’t happened in, what, months? You couldn’t have been on this rock for more than that.
“Kanaya, could I get some wine or something?” you ask as she fastens the buttons on her skirt.
She is silent.
Then: “No, Rose.”
“How come?”
She glances at you. “I know you were awake for the conversation Dave and I had last night. Didn’t you hear?”
“Maryam, come on. That idea is preposterous. Going cold turkey is unnecessary, especially considering the fact that I don’t even drink that much.” You stretch the waistband of your leggings, your thumb hooking the fabric. Then Kanaya is in front of you, her fingers under your chin tipping your head up to meet her gaze. She searches your face for what seems almost like hours, but it’s probably only a few seconds.
Finally her face contorts in dismay and she breathes, “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” you reply, a bit nervous. “How much could I drink in a couple months?”
Her lower lip quivers, and she pulls you close, stroking your hair. It’s a surprise, and you gasp a little.
“Rose, oh Rose,” she sobs. “We’ve been here for almost three years.”
No.
No.
No.
No way it’s been that long, no way, no fucking way.
“Do you not remember?” Kanaya is still crying. “You first kissed me. It had been just after the two-year mark. Please tell me you remember our first kiss, please, please, please.”
But you thought it had been celebrating six months.
“I do. Why would you think I didn’t?” you lie. You’re good at that, especially when you’re hungover.
She’s shaking. “I hate when you lie to me.” It’s cold again; she’s moving toward the door. “I’m going to leave you to take a nap and get over your headache.”
“I love you,” you call.
She closes the door.
Click-click.
Locked.
+
Kanaya holds your hair out of your face.
Dave brings you water.
Kanaya draws you close when you start quivering.
Dave tells you over and over that you’re okay, that you’ll be fine in a little while.
Kanaya tells you I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, never stopping until you drift to fitful bouts of sleep.
It’s three days later when they begin.
You wake from a dreamless sleep to an itchy feeling all throughout your skin. You scratch. It does nothing. Lifting the duvet, you peer at your skin.
There are lumps and bulges under the smooth surface of your stomach, your legs. They’re moving,
crawling,
worming
their way around inside you. Bloody holes break out on your thighs, your abdomen. Spiders emerge. They don’t stop. Your skin is swelling, swelling; they’re coming out like a tide. You
scream.
You’re shrieking at the top of your lungs, scraping them off but they’re everywhere, inside you, outside you, your skin is black, they’re on your face, coming out of your mouth, out of your eyes, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop oh God please kill me please
Tears stream down your face and they drink them.
You’re writhing under the sheets, kicking them off frantically. They’re biting you, stinging you, eating you away. Gnawing at your flesh, shredding your insides, stripping your bones.
Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop please just STOP
Strong arms come around you, around your own, trying to hold you still. You throw out a fist—it connects with a cheekbone. The owner curses. Shouts your name.
You open your eyes. Through cracks between the beetles you see the room shrinking, shrinking, shrinking in on you, you’re wailing, howling.
Kill me kill me kill me let me die just let me die please let me die kill me kill me let it end I hate this let it end let me die kill me
Someone rocks you gently back and forth and back and forth.
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The beetles, the spiders, they dissolve. Black sludge oozes from the wounds they chewed until they slide closed.
You itch.
+
Three candles light the room. It’s the brightest you can stand. You’re standing in the middle of the room, the bottom board of the bed behind you. You’re not sure what you’re doing.
Suddenly the room goes black. You feel yourself shudder, then crumple backward. The base of your skull connects with the corner of the bedframe.
You’re gone.
Thank you.