The glass is heavy in her hand as she sits in front of the small oval table. The cut of the glass reflecting light from the overhead bulb in rainbow prisms. She rests her elbows on her knees and swirls the glass around in her hand. The golden liquid rocking, leaving a trail around the glass like a slug might. Her nose tipping over the rim she breathes in it’s warmth. She knows how it will wrap itself around her, like a blanket, comforting. She needs the comfort. Just this one. A small blanket to offer comfort, just a small comfort.
She tilts the glass gently, almost lovingly and inhales, feeling it’s warmth as it slides down her throat. She likes how it feels and tilts it further, draining the amber fluid, it’s slug like trail the only sign of her downfall. She grabs the bottle and doubles the comfort. A sense of bravery pervades. It’s just a small blanket.
The blanket gets warmer, the bottle gets lighter, she no longer cares, she is warm.
The glass is heavy in her hand as she slumps across the sofa in front of the small oval table. She hears the door whine and raises her head. The small child framed in the doorway looks at the glass and then in her mothers eyes. The blanket is ripped away savagely as guilt slams it’s hard iron fist into her bowels.
The glass is heavy in her hand. She has every reason to stop.