An empty bottle smashes against the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall and shattered glass below it. The house hasn’t been quiet for days… sobbing and screaming echo through the unkempt house. The sole occupant of the residence lays huddled up in the middle of the living room, clutching a shirt she fished from the dirty laundry. A drunk. A horrible mother. A widow. The walking, crying, and shriveling mess of a reminder that some people can’t live without the loving embrace of their partner. She attempts to stand, retrieve, open, and to drink. But she falls back to the spinning floor. Is it the floor spinning or the room? Is it her? Is she spinning? She can’t tell anymore, she can’t think, if she lets herself think then he won’t rest. He needs rest. Where’s the wine? She makes the attempt again, this time making it to her feet. She shuffles over to the kitchen counter, slamming into walls and fighting the earth for her balance. She grabs her third dose of unreality. The foil comes off and the cork pops out, such a well-practiced motion, her body practically does it for her. Swallow after swallow she waits for the sweet numbing feeling to return, the warm embrace of forgetting, and the sweet lustful gaze of the dark, willing to take her body and mind from her. She collapses again, the impact with the ground is hard enough to force the wine back out… Her burning throat releases the hellish cocktail onto the hardwood floor, and she waits the pain out. If someone came by and spotted her puddle on the floor they would call her clumsy, spilling wine like that… She sits up, laying back against the cabinet doors, taking deep breaths. Lightheaded again… am I dying?… where is anon? he’ll be here again he wont forget me dont forget me my love i need you please i miss you just touch me again i miss your touch your voice talk to me again my love my life i need you. *click* The ignorant turn the knob, stumbling onto a grave. No bodies lay here. The grave is marked. The absence is the weapon. The cause and the effect. Blood then and blood now. Spilled for who? Hate brews in the survivor. It is spent on the innocent.