A small bottle of red wine

Lydia dragged her head up from the pillow, a dirty finger nailed hand came up to wipe the saliva from her cheek, her head collapsed back down on the yellow flattened pillow. She stretched out her body, massaged her legs in circular motion against the mattress, her arms spread out to the left hand side of the bed, with a sigh of comfort she dragged them back behind her pillow and smiled. He didn’t seem to be there, she dreamily assumed he had gone to the café to get her some breakfast. Her eyes opened, she started up in the bed, her eyes tried to make sense of what was around her, that all too familiar thought jolted her to consciousness, “What did I do last night?”

She threw her legs over the bed and walked over miscellaneous objects to the wrought iron full-length mirror. She didn’t remember getting naked last night, but she liked what she saw, she posed against the wall perked her ass up in to the air, not too shabby for a twenty three year old she thought. She pulled her hair up and let it drop around her face giving herself a cheeky wink in the process. She leaned in closer to look at the facial damage from last nights hedonism, blackness smeared around the eyes, red residue of lipstick stained the dry crevices of her lips, glitter fallen on her cheeks, despite the enlarged pores and sleep in her eyes, she thought she looked pretty fucking sexy.

Lydia mentally ticked off the objects in her bag, wallet, yes – still have money, yes, but how did I get so drunk then, doesn’t matter, keys, yes, this isn’t my lip balm, mobile, there was a possibility that she did not do too much damage then. She lay stomach down on the bed bending her legs at the knee and swinging her feet in the air; she grabbed the phone and rang his number. He didn’t answer; she rang three more times and gave up concluding that he probably had his earphones on. She got back under the crimson covers and nestled into the greasy pillow, turning she felt pain, upon investigation she found a large bruise on her lower back, immediately the she thought “shit I did fuck up last night”, but then all to quickly she replaced that notion with a giggle and said “oh Lydia, you are a mess of a woman.”

Out of boredom, waiting for him to return, she played with her phone, she opened her inbox and found an unread message from him, sitting up with a shudder of excitement she opened the message. “I’ve left you a letter it’s on your kitchen counter.” Lydia grabbed her robe from the back of the wall as confident as she was that morning she still didn’t like the idea of builders looking in from outside her smog filled windows. Bile rose to her throat when she opened the door to her small living room, half eaten kebabs lay on the coffee table, cigarette butts were everywhere, a bottle of red wine had fallen on the floor and the washing hadn’t been done for about a week, a skin of scum floated menacingly over the dishes. She moved through the mess stepping over month old Sunday newspapers to open a window, the builders looked up and she gave them a smile of distain. She spotted the letter written on cheap paper; she grabbed a bottle of flat seven-up from the fridge, took it and the letter to the soiled couch. She flicked the lid on her silk cut blues took one out and inhaled deeply.

She unfolded the letter, “Lydia, that was the last strike, it’s over, we’re over I love you, I love you more than you’ll ever know, but I can’t do this anymore, I can’t watch you to this to yourself anymore.” A lump started forming in her mouth. “I’m presuming that you don’t remember any of last night… after five glasses of wine I told you (which you had asked me to do) that you had enough and I got you a glass of water. You pushed the water back at me over the table, it fell in my lap, you laughed in my face and told me not to be such a spoilsport. You went to the club with your “friends” and even though I was needed to be somewhere else, I followed you to make sure you were ok. I told the lads I had to look after you and they told me to leave you (which I should have done) I went to find you and I found you kissing some fucking asshole, when I came up to you said that you didn’t know me and told me to fuck off. I had to drag you out of there; you couldn’t stand and were stealing drinks off tables. You fell all over the place on the walk home; I was so worried about you that I rang an ambulance. They came they said you were ok and just to get you to bed. I got you home and you clumsily got undressed telling me to fuck you like I mean it and calling me Derek? Who the fuck is Derek? I stayed up all night making sure that you were ok; I wrote this note at seven this morning and left at eight. Please don’t call me, don’t try to make any contact with me, as I said, as much as this hurts it hurts much more to see you like that, I know you and I know you’re a good and kind person, but what you become with alcohol is this incomprehensible monster. Sort yourself out – for your own good. James.”

Lydia let the letter slide out of her hands to the floor, her chest heaved in convulsions, she lifted her legs, wrapped her arms around them and cried out with pain. She cried like she had never before cried, inhuman wails came from her small chest filling the four walls, her hands grabbed her hair pulled her as much into herself as she could go. The tears subsided, she picked up the letter and held it to her falling again into drawn out sobs. Eventually, too dehydrated, eyes too swollen to will another tear, she picked herself up, stumbled through the sitting room, made her way to the fridge and took out a beer. On her way back to her bedroom she prodded her foot on the heel of a shoe; she took up the intrusive object and threw it maliciously at the wall. Sitting back in front of her mirror, she opened the can and lit a cigarette, using a make-up top for an ash tray. She looked at herself, the white light of winter shining through the bedroom window, she saw the creases on her forehead, she saw obtrusive crows feet blaming her, the black mascara intensified her white pallor, all traces of colour had fled her lips. She saw herself a fag in one hand, a beer in the other, older than she should be, a strung out whore. She pressed her nose to the mirror, desperately trying to find herself in her eyes, the large brown eyes of a fool stared sadly back at her. Pulling her head back she stood up throwing her cigarette out the window and placing the beer on the sill.

Lydia lay back on the bed, moved her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. She thought of him, she thought of how they met, how she hadn’t thought much of him at first and through his tender eyes and infectious laugh she had fallen for him. The days they had skipped work and forgot friends just to spend days in bed talking through different characters, eating ice cream for breakfast, making light-hearted fun of people, discussing the problems of the world and painting each other like clowns. That time that they were so infused by passion that they went behind some trees in the middle of the day and made love. He listened to her, he listened and held her and didn’t pass judgement on the less than pretty pieces of her life. Her heart welled and silent tears slid down her cheeks. She thought of the first time he told her he loved her, she was too drunk to remember the night but he told her the next morning. He was right, he deserved better.

She lay, she thought, she loved and needed him, she knew that she was good, she knew that she had made him laugh and she had been there when he needed her and possibly if she proved herself to him, possibly, possibly, she might be able to deserve him. The question was how, Lydia sat up and placed her head between her hands, how, how? The answer was obvious, change, she had to change, she had to give up the drink, how hard could it be it wasn’t like she was an alcoholic she just couldn’t handle it. How hard could giving up drink be, she didn’t need it, she never remembered nights when she did drink, what was the big problem, how hard could it be? She grabbed a biro and a receipt from the bedside table, on the back of the receipt she wrote “I will no longer be a pointless drunk” – she took out her earring and pinned the promise to her dressing gown. She rose up from the bed, looked out into the sky and made a vow to the world, to him.

Lydia shuffled through her music and slipped on The Velvet Underground. She walked into the tiny bathroom, spread her whitening liquid on her toothbrush, she brushed sideways, underneath and inside for 10 seconds each section, allowing 30 seconds for the teeth that were displayed to the world. She hung her robe on the back on the door, played with the bath taps until the temperature was right and pulled up the lever. Once she immersed her head under the two-bit shower, her shoulders slumped; her hands massaged the water around her breasts and stomach. She washed her face twice with various scrubs and lotions, applied deep conditioner to her black curly hair and washed herself with cleansing gel. She stepped put of the shower dried herself from bottom to top, flicked her hair over her head, brushed a balm through and wrapped her locks in a towel. She wiped the mirror, removed her eye makeup, toned her face and settled back into her dressing gown.

Now she was fresh, she was clean. “Baby be good, do what you should, you know it’ll be alright”. She sprayed canned water over her face, she looked in the mirror, with the water dripping off her long eyelashes to unto her full cheeks; she looked like a child, her teeth not as white as they should be but once she gives up the cigarettes and coffee that should sort itself out. She danced around for a little while, stood on top of the chair reached into her cupboard, pulled out rumbled black cords and a tight black sweater. Underwear was not an issue as she could choose from the floor. She dressed herself, applied eye shadow, mascara, some light rouge and natural lip gloss. She wrapped her hair in a knot and fixed it with a clip. Now, how to proceed?

“Wine in the morning and some breakfast at night”. She didn’t feel much like breakfast, in fact now she was numb. It wasn’t her fault, it was societies; she wouldn’t have to paralyse her brain with alcohol if life was sufficient. “how does it feel to belong” how the fuck should she know, been lost all her life, except for him, but now he’s gone, he’s gone. Change of plan, down to the off-licence spend her wallets leftovers on a bottle of pinot and some silk cuts, he’s not going to want to talk to her today so may as well enjoy it while she can.

Lydia threw on her red-hooded jacket, made sure everything was unplugged, twice, slammed the door of her apartment, ran down the three flights of stairs and opened the door to the outside. She didn’t look at peoples faces, she didn’t feel like it today, fuck them if they judge her, she crossed over to the bridge and cursed the dirty river, she walked past the bearded homeless man brushing his hair on the steps of the church, he yelled at her “get off the fucking path” she was about to turn back and shout at him but what was the point. She walked on, the rain making clowns of her eyes, she reached the off-licence, asked calmly for her wine and cigarettes made polite talk about the weather jokenling asking the salesman if he wouldn’t prefer to be back home.

Lydia walked back, cursing herself, what was wrong with her, why did she need this bottle, what was the point of it all, he was gone, he must come back, it must be sorted out, she was not going to drink this bottle, she was going to go straight to him, lay herself bare and fix herself. She stopped on the bridge and looked forward, she saw the trees bending over; their leaves making play with the water; she saw a tourist couple holding out the camera supporting it by each others arms taking photos of their happy times and an unemployed father holding up his child so she could see over the edge, so she would be no longer mystified about what lay behind the rocky wall. Lydia smiled and stuck the brown-papered bottle under her arm.

She walked out on to the road, the sun shot thought the clouds; she turned to warm her face, her feet lifted from the ground as the windshield manoeuvred her body to fly over the car, gravity hauled her back onto the boot, her backbone snapped back into her as she struck the pavement. The bottle of pinot turned in the air, the wine reflecting the sun as it fell stealthily back to earth in her direction, the bottle smashed upon her chest, spears of glass sank deep into her pale throat, the scarlet blood mingled, danced and became entwined with the ruby wine; in a little while a light rain started, the unique colour vanished down the grey city street.