Room 403. Zip code is 94707 I think.”
I disconnect the call and feel around the bed until I
come up with a bottle that is actually not empty. Without even looking I pop
the cap and pour it down my throat. Strangely it both burns and soothes both my
throat and soul. The next couple days feel like one long fogged out ordeal of
misery as I try my best to drink away memories of the last two weeks.
By the time I come up for air I don’t know what day it
is, what time it is, and how much time has passed since I last talked to my
aunt. Slowly I sit up in bed. I blink several times and wipe the sleep from my
eyes. My bed is littered with empty bottles. Absent is anything remotely
edible. I have the idea I haven’t eaten anything in several days or more and
have just been living on alcohol.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand
shakily. The room is no longer spinning and I feel mildly lightheaded. My mouth
tastes like shit and my stomach is only partially nauseated. I’m just about to
head to the bathroom to pee when there’s a pounding on my door followed by a
voice.
“Ms. Swift, you have mail.” A woman’s voice says.
“Just…just slide it under the door.” I yell.
“Sorry ma’am, but it won’t fit.” The woman answers.
Great. “Just leave it in front of my door. I’ll get it in
a second.”
“Sorry ma’am but I can’t do that. If someone were to
steal it we’d be liable.”
“Fuck! Okay fine. I’m coming. Just cool your jets for a
minute.”
Instead of going to the bathroom I stagger over to the
door and pull open, making sure to keep the chain intact. I don’t want some crazy
pushing his way into my room. I peek out and it’s just one of the hotel staff
and she’s holding an envelope out to me. I take it and shut the door. Who the
hell is writing to me? Nobody sends letters in this day and age, and who the
fuck knows I’m staying here? I look at the address where it originated. It’s from
my aunt’s retirement community. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I totally
forgot that her caregiver called asking for my address here. Holy crap, that
means at least three days have passed since I hung up the phone and cracked
open a new bottle of booze. I wobble over to the bed and sit down where I
carefully open the letter. I recognize the familiar spidery scrawl from my
aunt’s hand. Her normally difficult to read script has become next to impossible
for me to decipher.
My sweet darling Morgan,
I’m told I don’t have many lucid moments
anymore, so I’m going to use one of my last to offer some guidance like I used
to do when you were a teenager. You may have been thinking that I wasn’t on my
A game when we spoke the other day, but I was blessed that day with a few
moments of clarity so here goes my two cents worth.
You are a good person Morgan. Don’t you ever
forget that. Sure you are prone to some rather rash and impulsive decisions but
you have become a fine young woman and you have accomplished a lot for someone
who isn’t perfect. We all have our crosses to bear. Deep in your heart you
know what you have to do. I know what you think you have done to that young man
of yours, but I believe you’re wrong. Drinking too much lowers your inhibitions
and allows you to do things that you might think of but would never do. Alcohol
only lets you access parts of you that would normally stay locked away. You’re
no killer Morgan! You don’t have that in you so no amount of alcohol is going
to bring out what’s not there in the first place. I know you and I know what
you’re capable of and killing’s not one of them. You said your friend Stacy has
been trying to call you. You answer the phone when she calls or you call her
right away and find out where you stand. Then you go find your young man and
you stay there and you talk to him and bare your soul until you have made
everything right with him.
Morgan you’ve become a selfish, thoughtless,
ego maniac! I didn’t raise
I disconnect the call and feel around the bed until I
come up with a bottle that is actually not empty. Without even looking I pop
the cap and pour it down my throat. Strangely it both burns and soothes both my
throat and soul. The next couple days feel like one long fogged out ordeal of
misery as I try my best to drink away memories of the last two weeks.
By the time I come up for air I don’t know what day it
is, what time it is, and how much time has passed since I last talked to my
aunt. Slowly I sit up in bed. I blink several times and wipe the sleep from my
eyes. My bed is littered with empty bottles. Absent is anything remotely
edible. I have the idea I haven’t eaten anything in several days or more and
have just been living on alcohol.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand
shakily. The room is no longer spinning and I feel mildly lightheaded. My mouth
tastes like shit and my stomach is only partially nauseated. I’m just about to
head to the bathroom to pee when there’s a pounding on my door followed by a
voice.
“Ms. Swift, you have mail.” A woman’s voice says.
“Just…just slide it under the door.” I yell.
“Sorry ma’am, but it won’t fit.” The woman answers.
Great. “Just leave it in front of my door. I’ll get it in
a second.”
“Sorry ma’am but I can’t do that. If someone were to
steal it we’d be liable.”
“Fuck! Okay fine. I’m coming. Just cool your jets for a
minute.”
Instead of going to the bathroom I stagger over to the
door and pull open, making sure to keep the chain intact. I don’t want some crazy
pushing his way into my room. I peek out and it’s just one of the hotel staff
and she’s holding an envelope out to me. I take it and shut the door. Who the
hell is writing to me? Nobody sends letters in this day and age, and who the
fuck knows I’m staying here? I look at the address where it originated. It’s from
my aunt’s retirement community. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I totally
forgot that her caregiver called asking for my address here. Holy crap, that
means at least three days have passed since I hung up the phone and cracked
open a new bottle of booze. I wobble over to the bed and sit down where I
carefully open the letter. I recognize the familiar spidery scrawl from my
aunt’s hand. Her normally difficult to read script has become next to impossible
for me to decipher.
My sweet darling Morgan,
I’m told I don’t have many lucid moments
anymore, so I’m going to use one of my last to offer some guidance like I used
to do when you were a teenager. You may have been thinking that I wasn’t on my
A game when we spoke the other day, but I was blessed that day with a few
moments of clarity so here goes my two cents worth.
You are a good person Morgan. Don’t you ever
forget that. Sure you are prone to some rather rash and impulsive decisions but
you have become a fine young woman and you have accomplished a lot for someone
who isn’t perfect. We all have our crosses to bear. Deep in your heart you
know what you have to do. I know what you think you have done to that young man
of yours, but I believe you’re wrong. Drinking too much lowers your inhibitions
and allows you to do things that you might think of but would never do. Alcohol
only lets you access parts of you that would normally stay locked away. You’re
no killer Morgan! You don’t have that in you so no amount of alcohol is going
to bring out what’s not there in the first place. I know you and I know what
you’re capable of and killing’s not one of them. You said your friend Stacy has
been trying to call you. You answer the phone when she calls or you call her
right away and find out where you stand. Then you go find your young man and
you stay there and you talk to him and bare your soul until you have made
everything right with him.
Morgan you’ve become a selfish, thoughtless,
ego maniac! I didn’t raise
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