She stands up, dizzy and drunk. Wonders when her heels came unstrapped, and grips the glass she's got in her hand tighter than she holds her rosary on sleepless nights. Her vision hazy, she trips over her own twisted ankles trying to stand up and pulls the bottom hem of her dress down because her mother taught her two things: One, a lady never shows her ass in public. Two, a lady only drinks the strongest of whiskeys. That was before she had skipped town to pal around with her new boyfriend that had pockets deeper than Lake Baikal, if you know what I'm saying.
The silence is heavy as she slowly makes her way out of whatever hallway she had found herself in, stepping over someone else's body that's marinated in liquor for only god knows how long. It takes an effort not to tumble down the stairs in her shit-faced state, and she barely makes it out alive. There's a door. Opens it. There's a city outside cast in the glow of a purple sunrise, and she thinks that it's much too pretty for a morning like this.
Barefoot and barely breathing. Her lungs contract heavily with every inhale she makes. There is a fire in her intestines.
Can't remember the way home, can't remember the way home. She can't remember where her home is because she doesn't have one. If home is where the heart is, then the only home she has ever had was a set of smoker's lungs and a heavy ribcage. She doesn't even ooze blood anymore when she cuts herself because there is not an ounce left in her body that has the will to scream at the world anymore. Flags a taxi down. Throws herself into it because her legs are mangled and she doesn't know how to undo the messes she's made. She pays in the dollar bills she's found stuffed in the cup of her bra.
Her heart beats. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom in her chest. It doesn't hurt. Or maybe it does. She isn't really sure because there are clouds hanging in the back of her mind and they aren't raining but the humidity is starting to make her sweat. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. The cab driver looks back at her from the rearview mirror and she is sure he can hear it. Ba-boom. So loud in her chest. Strikes a fist to her bosom, willing the sound to go away. Ba-boom. Ba... boom... Ba...
Tires squeal. He brakes in front of her apartment it seems and she hobbles out, barely shutting the door behind her. The paint chips. There is yellow underneath her fingernails and she cannot figure out how to get it out. She doesn't remember where her keys are. She doesn't even remember if this is her apartment, but she walks up the stairs in the back to the third floor and into the left hallway and stops at the door that reads in crooked letters, "12B," but she doesn't know if this is her room. Maybe.
The knob turns. Enters, slamming the door shut behind her. Collapses onto the floor, cold. Shivering. Vomit coming up her throat but not leaving the inside of her mouth. Instead, coating it with the taste of rancid whiskey and Chanel No. 5, the perfume her mother used to wear.
But most of all, she can taste all the bitterness from her own rotting body, and she swallows it whole. Down her esophagus. Back into her stomach.
Her heart is so loud. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.