Page 32 of Rest In Peace

She turned away from the window, her reflection in the glass a ghostly specter shadowed by doubt and worry. Her breath came in short bursts, her mind replaying the convulsions that had seized Victoria's small frame, the terror in her eyes before they rolled back.

"God, not again," she murmured to the empty room.

Her gaze fell on the wine rack, its contents glinting seductively in the dim lighting. One bottle stood slightly askew as if beckoning. With a trembling hand, Sarah reached for it, pulling the cork free with a practiced twist. The pop resonated, oddly loud in the stillness.

"Please, just one glass," she bargained with herself, though she knew the lie for what it was.

The wine poured, a deep crimson river flowing into the glass, the sound of it hitting the bottom oddly soothing. She wrapped her fingers around the stem, the coolness of the glass a stark contrast to her feverish skin. Raising it to her lips, she drank deeply, the rich liquid a bittersweet balm to her fraying nerves.

"Help her," she whispered into the empty glass, a silent prayer for Victoria as the alcohol began its familiar dance through her bloodstream, promising oblivion but delivering only more shadows.

The last drop fell, a final crimson tear. Sarah tilted the bottle, coaxing it out. The bottles stood like sentinels, guardians of her secret pain, each label a testament to a night spent drowning in vineyard graves.

She eyed the empty vessel, its hollow echoing back at her—accusatory. Her fingers traced the curve of the glass, cool and smooth, like her daughter's cheek in slumber. The urge to reach for another was there, a whisper in her mind growing louder with each heartbeat.

"Stop," she breathed out, a command more to herself than the silence around her. Her hands shook as she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. It felt heavy—like it was made of lead rather than silicone and glass.

"Come on; come on," she muttered, thumbing through the contacts until Steven's name appeared. She tapped the call button, her heart thudding against her ribs.

"Hello?" His voice came through, strained but clear.

"Steven, how… how is she?" Her words tripped over her tongue, a clumsy dance of vowels and consonants.

There was a pause, a stretch of time where she could hear the beeping of machines, the distant murmur of hospital life.

"Stable," he said finally. "They're running tests."

"Tests," she echoed, the word a stone sinking in her gut.

"Sarah, are you—" He began, but she couldn't bear the weight of his unspoken question.

"Thank you," she interjected, the words sharp, a blade cutting the line that tethered them. She ended the call, the screen going dark, reflecting back a woman frayed at the edges—a mother coming undone. He called her back.

"Sarah? Are you… have you been drinking?" Steven's sharp and accusatory voice cut through the static of the phone line.

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a wildfire burning away any pretense. "I just needed…." She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't find a lie that would sound like truth in her own ears.

"Needed what? To be drunk while our daughter is lying in a hospital bed?" There was an edge to his words, a disappointment that sliced deeper than anger.

"It's not like that," she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a jumble. But they were slurred, her tongue heavy and uncooperative in her mouth.

"Isn't it, Sarah?"

The room spun slightly, or maybe it was her head, filled with too much wine and too little courage. She glanced at the phone, its glowing screen a beacon of her failure.

"Steven, I—" The apology choked in her throat, strangled by shame.

"Sarah, this?—"

"Goodbye, Steven." She pressed “End Call,” the beep punctuating her humiliation. Her hand trembled as she set down the phone, the silence in the room now complete, oppressive, and all-consuming.

Sarah's hands shook, the clatter of glass against glass as she collected the empty bottles. Each one was a memory, a moment of frailty, a time when the wine had whispered false promises of peace into her ear. She gripped them tighter, the knuckles on her fingers whitening.

"Enough," she muttered to herself, the word a blade severing the threads of her denial. Gathering the last of the bottles, she marched to the door, her steps unsteady but determined.

The humid evening air clung to her face as she stepped outside, the pile of glass in her arms. The recycling bin loomed before her, a confessional waiting for her sins. With a heavy heart and an arm weighed down by her habit, she tilted the bottles and let them fall. They cascaded into the bin with a cacophony of crashes that seemed to echo around the quiet street.

"Out of sight, out of mind," she whispered, but her voice held no conviction.

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