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The tumbler was a pretty
thing really, amber and gold, glinting in the light. The slight
rattle of ice against the glass took nothing away from its
terrible perfection. She could smell the sweet scent of her
son's breath under the heavy fumes blending with the harsher
scent of rum, after she kissed him good night.
The clinks of ice grew
longer and harder, drowning out the play of consciousness
in her mind. Holding the glass up, the sparkle and glitter
lost some of its joy in the sad light of the early morning
sun. She hadn't meant to greet it, but it was there just the
same.
Debbie set the glass
down with a soft click. A pressing headache tingling behind
her eyes. She knew she would miss another hug before the school
bus came.
Taking a deep breath,
she pulled once again at the glass, the liquid within scratching
her throat raw. The sun drifted up around the mountains and
the pale pinks suddenly reminded her of her childhood. They
were soft and warm against the night, drawing her deeper and
deeper into a dream that she couldn't recognize anymore.
A time of reflections
her mother had always said, when the world was bright and
new, daring the smog-ridden skies. A time to draw strength
from God and His glory He shows us.
"I wonder if He
sees the Hell He left behind," she thought.
The pinks and soft
reds blended into difficult showers of yellow and purple,
parading a small part of her across the sky.
"A small part,
not the whole," she whispered.
Debbie leaned over
the railing and retched, bringing up all the bile she held
inside of her. The sickly smell invaded her nose and mouth.
She tried to bite it off, but the slick substance burrowed
its way through her teeth anyway.
When heaving quieted,
she turned her back on the light and opened the door to her
room. The rum was never far; she made sure of that. A small
snore reached her ears. Her son lay in her bed, a delicate
stream of drool pooling under his lips where his head touched
the pillow.
setting the bottle
down, she leaned over him and smoothed his hair from his forehead.
"Only a small
part of me," she said.
Looking at the bottle,
she couldn't decide what was worse. A son she never wanted,
but had sneaked up on her, betraying everything she had hoped
to do or the bottle on the nightstand, telling the story of
everything she had become.
A hesitant knock sounded
through the door. Startled, the glass slipped and shattered
on the floor. Mike turned, but didn't wake, even after she
sat on the bed next to him.
Tiny shards of glass
glittered in between the trickles of blood lacing the tops
of her feet as it blended with the sticky rum, gluing her
feet to the floor.
The knock came again.
"Senorita? Do you want me to wake and dress Michael?"
"Yes, Maria. Come
on in and get him."
Holding Mike's head
tight to her shoulder, Maria lifted him out of bed and quickly
hustled him out of the room.
"But I want to
stay with Mom. Can she fix me breakfast?"
Debbie closed her eyes
and lay on the bed, not caring about the smears she drew with
her feet.
"No sweetie, you
can see your mother when you come home from school this afternoon."
Maria said.
The door closed, the
small click of the latch releasing the locks on Debbie's eyes.
"Never again.
I won't do this again."
She lay until the yellow
light of day burned into an afternoon of orange. Her eyes
never wavered from the glossy windows. Sitting up, she reached
for the bottle.
©1999,
Christie Benson
Writings
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