Page 56 of Rest In Peace

"Sarah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with urgency. "We need to talk about… this." His free hand gestured vaguely at the wine bottle.

Her vision swam as she struggled to focus on his face, to anchor herself to the moment.

"I'm trying, Steven," she murmured, her words slurred around the edges.

"Trying isn't enough anymore." Concern etched deep lines across his forehead. "You're slipping away from us, from Victoria."

She winced at the mention of their daughter's name, a stab of guilt sharper than any hangover.

"I remember… something about a new doctor," she stammered, her mind grappling with the slippery threads of her memory. "You told me not to worry."

"Because worrying is all you do when you're like this," he retorted, his tone softening as he squeezed her hands. "Drinking yourself into oblivion isn't going to help her or you."

"Help…." The word echoed in her head, hollow and distant. She knew she should understand and connect the dots, but they skittered away and were just out of reach.

"Sarah, please." Steven's voice cracked, a hint of desperation bleeding through. You have to stop this—for Victoria, for us."

"Us…." There was a world contained within that tiny word, a world she felt herself drifting away from with every bottle she finished. She wanted to reach out, to pull herself back, but the current of her own habits was too strong.

"Remember, Sarah," Steven coaxed, his thumbs rubbing circles on the back of her hands. "Try to remember for Victoria."

"Yes, of course for Victoria…." Her voice was a breath, a prayer. She would try—she had to try for her daughter.

Steven's gaze bore into her, searching for a flicker of the woman he once knew. "I'll show you the journals," he said quietly, yet there was an edge to his voice that demanded sobriety. "But when you're sober. You need to see things clearly."

"Okay," Sarah whispered, nodding slowly. Her mind clung to the clarity in his eyes, a lifeline amidst the fog. "I'll be… I'll be sober."

"Good." He paused, uncertainty flickering across his features. "And you should come with me to Victoria's next appointment. But Sarah, I mean it?—"

"I know, sober." She cut him off, the word foreign but necessary on her tongue.

"Sarah…." His voice trailed off, waiting for her resolve to solidify.

Her pulse thrummed with a mix of fear and determination. "I want to understand what's happening to her, Steven. Really understand." Her fingers twitched, aching to grasp at the knowledge she'd avoided.

"Then, it's settled." He offered a short nod, the unspoken promise hanging between them like a fragile truce.

The silence stretched between them. Sarah's gaze found their linked hands, Steven's fingers a vise around hers, grounding her trembling resolve.

"Steven," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "we've… we've been through so much."

He turned to her, eyes weary yet resolute. "Yes, we have. But we'll face what's next together."

She searched his face for the certainty she felt slipping from her grasp. "How did we get here? How did I let…?" Her words trailed off, choked by regrets too numerous to voice.

"Sarah." His firm voice pulled her back from the edge of despair. “We can't change the past. We focus on Victoria now, on getting better—for her."

"Getting better," she echoed, the phrase laden with ambiguity. Better health for Victoria, sobriety for herself. The path ahead loomed daunting, steeped in accountability.

"Tomorrow," she said, more to herself than to him. "Tomorrow is a new day." A promise, a plea.

"Tomorrow," he agreed, squeezing her hand in affirmation. "We’ll start fresh. You'll see the journals and understand everything. And you'll be at that appointment sober and clear-headed."

"Clear-headed," she murmured.

The concept seemed alien, yet vital. She needed clarity, not just for Victoria, but to salvage her own fragmented self.

"Sarah." His tone softened, threads of old warmth weaving through his concern. "You're stronger than you know. We both are. We'll get through this."

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