Who is She?

Alone, she sits on her floor legs crossed, staring at the floor boards. A half empty bottle of vodka cradled in her right hand and a burning cigarette hanging between her pointer and middle finger. She can't remember the last time she was stone sober, or how she became this shameful being. The last time she saw herself, or what was left of her, a girl with red rimmed eyes, dried lips, and hollowed cheeks appeared. This girl had no life. It seemed her life was a spinning disaster. She completely pushed away those who loved her. She boxed up, and shipped away her passions and ambitions. She was not the lively girl who everyone loved. She believed happiness would be found at the bottom of her bottle, or somewhere between drags of her cigarette.

 

 

Author's Note

Just a rough draft of something

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

What an interesting but sadly not so unfamiliar portrait you paint here. Every addict clings to despair but every addiction stems from pain. It matters not whether the pain is physical; mental, emotional, real or imagined. There is no secret cure and no nepenthe for the suffering. I enjoyed the read.