Drinking Herself Away

The familiar wailing pierced the silence of the night, seeping through the thin walls of my room. I tossed and turned, trying to ignore it, but it was no use. It never stopped. The rest of the house lay in dead silence, a stark contrast to her unending sobs.

My sleep-deprived eyes longed to close, to escape into the brief quiet as her sobbing faded into whispers, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Soon, it would pick up again.

My bed groaned beneath me as I shifted, facing my shut bedroom door. The screeching was the least of my worries; simply surviving was at the top of my list. So many things were already broken in this house. I knew the drill: go in, pick her off the floor, and put her back to bed. When her sobs hitched a notch higher, I crept from the warmth of my covers, the soft thud of my bare feet echoing as I made the journey to her room.

I’d made this walk so many times I could do it in my sleep. As I neared her door, the heaving became clearer, punctuated by fresh sobs. Her door was already ajar. She sat huddled in the corner, reaching into a bucket, too disoriented to even lift her head and properly drink the wine slopping in her hand.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I whispered, mustering all the strength an eight-year-old girl could, and heaved her up.