*this post was originally conceived as a ‘father/daughter’ post with two different interpretations of the same picture.
Jenna (the bride) posted this pic on IG last Father’s Day and it hit that writing nerve in me resulting in this post.
Putting your thoughts on paper and ultimately sharing them online is a dicey thing.
So, this post may be updated at the appropriate time.
Mekaila cradled the bottle of No. 3 London Dry Gin, her favourite gin. She’d kept this bottle hidden in her trunk, waiting for the right moment to break it out. She always thought when she finally did have a reason to open it, it would be in celebration, and that she would be happy, and she wouldn’t be alone when she drank it. But reality never could hold up to fantasy. But gin could help make reality easier to deal with.
Her feet we cold against the stone, her ballet flats doing nothing to keep them warm. But she hardly noticed as she made her way to the Room of Requirement. All she needed was to dance and get sloppy drunk by herself, maybe then she could rid herself of the image of Andr—no, she couldn’t think her name. It was a bad enough seeing her earlier talking to Lisa, and she hated the ugly pit of jealousy threatening to rip her stomach open. It was unreasonable, and unfair, but she couldn’t let it go. Fuck, okay, just breathe, she thought to herself. The door appeared for her and she walked through it gratefully, feeling instantly at home with the hardwood floors and the mirror wall. She put the bottle down before making her way to the bar.
She stuck to simple movements to warm up, lifting her leg gracefully to the bar. The stretch in her leg felt comfortable, her muscles were thankful for the familiar movement. She didn’t have the patience for a warm up today, but she did it anyway because the last thing she needed were tight muscle on top of the broken heart. It didn’t take much though, until her body was loose and buzzing and ready to really move. She took a leap, her legs stretched wide in the air, and she felt for a moment as if she was flying, like nothing could touch her. Maybe she was a bird in a past life.
There was no real thought to her movement, her body was just begging her not to stop, lest the memories find a way to crawl back into her head. But there it was, a snippet of the way Andr—no, just don’t think of her name, only recall the smile on her face when she agreed to be your unicorn. And her body danced around the fact that there was a smile that used to be reserved just for her. A smile she no longer had the privilege of holding. With a shudder she fell, and her body landed next to the gin. Her fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle and she pulled it close. Turning this act into a part of her intricate healing dance.
The first sip burned the back of her throat, but she greeted it like an old friend. Where movement failed to erase her memory, alcohol could surely help. Still clutching the bottle, she stood and placed her other hand on the bar. Pirouettes were surprisingly easy to do while holding the bottle.
Fuck, she made the mistake of looking at herself. Her cheeks were stained with tears and mascara, and her hair had become an unruly mess. She looked like a tornado, and it was enough to still her. Walking closer to the mirror she took a big gulp from the bottle, the burn not managing to hit her quite so hard this time. And before she knew it she was holding a half empty bottle, the room beginning to wobble. Carefully she eased herself down and sat cross legged on the cold floor. Maybe this was why her dad drank, not to forget, but to make the memories hurt less. She idly thought that maybe she was being over dramatic, but she couldn’t really be bothered by that. She’d never been in love before, never even had a relationship before, let alone a break up, so she had no basis for comparison.
Never again, she though as she finished off the bottle, no more relationships. No sleeping around either, she would focus simply on dancing. And drinking. And maybe perfecting doing both at the same time. But not tonight, tonight she would allow herself to drown in thoughts of Andr—no, not yet. Not until the bottle was empty. Which, she realized, would be surprisingly soon. She glared at the bottle, feeling anger because it had emptied itself, drunk logic was beautiful. With a sigh she pressed the bottle to her lips and let the last of the liquid poor into her.
Laying down, she let herself think it. Andrya. A name she would associate with sweet smiles and first love, the first feeling of hope she’d ever known. But she would also have to associate it with the bad things, well bad thing. One bad day, everything could be ruined by a few simple words. And it wasn’t fair, Mekaila hated that this was how things worked. No one person should have that much power. Laying herself down, still cradling the now empty bottle, her eyes began to close.
Drifting off, she had a thought that maybe sleeping on a hardwood floor while being highly intoxicated wasn’t the best idea, but her eyes were already closed, her body already gone.
-Sunday morning-
Mekaila awoke with a start from a horrible nightmare. She wished she could recall it, but it had already slipped away from her. And truthfully she wasn’t sure she really wanted to try and hold onto it. Her body was buzzing and sore as she stretched out her limbs. She threw the empty bottle at the mirror and wiped a few stray tears away. No more crying, not today, she was done and ready to leave this room as a different person.
Harder, carrying a few more scars in her arsenal. Everything about her was broken glass and hard edges. And she wasn’t sure how to soften them, or if she really wanted to anymore.
