Page 33 of Rest In Peace

Back inside, the house was still; the only sound was her breathing—too quick, too shallow. As she turned to lock the door behind her, her gaze fell on the counter where the unopened bottles of wine stood, calling her back.

"Damn it." The words hissed between her clenched teeth.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing the cool surface of the bottle. Her reflection stared back through the darkened glass, distorted and wavering.

"Sarah, stop!" she commanded herself. "This isn't helping."

But the wine promised solace, a balm for her fraying nerves. She thought of Victoria, of Steven's disappointed voice, and felt the pull grow stronger. The seal cracked under her twisting hand, the sound a betrayal of her earlier resolve.

"Only a glass," she bargained, pouring the deep red liquid and watching it swirl in the goblet. "Just one."

She brought the glass to her lips, the familiar aroma wrapping around her senses, pulling her further from the edge of reason.

"Victoria needs you sober," she reminded herself, the wine hovering, untouched. But her worries screamed louder than her conscience.

"Tomorrow," she vowed weakly. "I'll start tomorrow."

The first sip was both a defeat and a reprieve, the taste of surrender bittersweet on her tongue.

The glass tipped and drained. Another poured. Then another. The room began its languid tilt, the corners blurring into shadows. Sarah's thoughts muddied with each gulp, and her resolve drowned to a whisper beneath the wine's seductive tide. The world spun, and she spun with it until the floor rose to meet her in an unforgiving embrace.

"Sarah!"

Her name cracked through the fog. She blinked against the harsh light, the room coming back into sharp, unkind focus. Steven towered above her, his face contorted with anger and disgust.

"Look at you," he spat, "Drunk again."

She tried to rise, but her limbs were heavy and uncooperative. The room swayed, and she slumped back down. Her head pounded in time with her quickening pulse.

"Go to bed," Steven commanded, his voice cold and distant. "You're useless like this."

"Steven…." Her tongue felt thick, words slurred and distant. “It’s not like you don’t drink.”

“I don’t drink like this. And certainly not anymore. I have a sick daughter to attend to. But you have apparently forgotten that?”

“But….”

"Bed," he repeated, turning away. His steps thudded across the floor, each one echoing her shame.

Dragging herself up, Sarah stumbled toward the staircase, the weight of her body immense. Each step creaked underfoot, a mournful chorus to accompany her retreat. Her hands shook on the railing, the last of the day's wine sour on her breath.

"Victoria?" she tried again, her voice barely a whisper.

"Sleep it off, Sarah," came the reply, devoid of warmth.

"Steven," Sarah croaked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Victoria—how is she?"

He paused at the doorway, his silhouette rigid against the hallway light. "She's very sick." His words were clipped, heavy with unspoken accusations.

"Did they… did they say what's wrong?" Her heart stumbled over each beat, aching for her daughter.

"Tests," he muttered. "More tests. The cancer might have spread. They don't know yet." He faced her now, his eyes searching and dissecting. "But really, Sarah, when did you last care? You can't even stay sober."

"Steven, please—" She reached out, fingers trembling, grasping for understanding amidst the wreckage of their conversation.

"Your concern is convenient," he scoffed, stepping away from her outstretched hand. "Always after the fact. After another bottle."

"Steven, I…."

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