“He’s fucked.” Brad’s voice comes from behind, but I don’t take my eyes off the blurry vision of her.
“I buried my dad,” I mumble. “I have every right to be fucked. So fuck you. Fuck you all. Fuck everyone.” I lift my head with way too much effort, pointing a limp hand at Rose. “And especially fuck you.” The strength needed to keep my head up is too much, and it pisses me right off that I have to drop it back to the carpet. My brain rattles when my skull collides with the floor. “Fuck.” I cough, clumsily reaching up to rub my head. I’m fucking plastered. I don’t think I’ve ever been so drunk. Being inebriated is being vulnerable, but I’m not so steaming to know that I’ve been vulnerable for a while now. “And it’s your fault,” I spit, feeling some hands under my armpits. “Leave me here.”
“How much has he had?” Rose’s voice is concerned. Fucking joke.
“Not enough.” I’m not unconscious yet. I roll, shrugging off their hands, and scan the floor for my bottle. “Where have you hidden it?” I ask accusingly.
“For fuck’s sake,” Brad mutters.
I’m suddenly on two feet, though far from stable. I feel weightless, and it’s only when Rose yells and something collides with my shoulder that I realize I’m falling. “Fuck.” I land on the floor again with a thud. The curses coming at me tells my drunken head that Brad and Rose aren’t much appreciating my state, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I’m feeling great. The sense of freedom, the relief from being so sloshed quite liberating.
“You’re not very attractive when you’re drunk,” Rose mutters, dropping to her knees next to me.
The cheek. “Well . . .” I point a finger at her, trying to focus on the tip as it circles the air all by itself. On a sigh, she takes it and holds it steady for me.
“Well, what?” she asks.
“Well.” I draw a blank, rummaging through my head for what I was going to say. “Oh yeah.” I sniff, forcing my face into scowling. Or something close. “Well, I don’t like you slicing your arms open. A-a-and I don’t like it that it doesn’t hurt you, because it fucking hurts me.” I yank the sleeve of my shirt up clumsily and rip the bandage off, as if to show her my agony. “I did this because of you.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Brad dips to get his face up close, and probably a bit clearer for me too. His eyebrows are high. Accusing. “Time for bed.”
“Fuck you. I don’t have a bed.” I throw my arm out and catch Rose on the arm. “Put me in her room.” Brad looks to Rose, and it riles me. “Why you looking at her for? I fucking tol . . . old you, put me in her room. In her bed.” I start to scramble up, swatting their hands away when they both move in to help me. “It’s my fucking house. My fucking bed. My fucking life.” I stagger to the door, smacking my arm on the frame. “And she”—I whirl around too fast, dizziness sending me staggering a few paces before I right myself and narrow my eyes on Rose as best I can—“is mine too. Anyone got a problem with that?” I hear no protests, though I can’t see any faces clearly to gage reactions. So I start walking, pin-balling off the walls as I make my way down the corridor. Fuck me, I’m a mess.
I see Esther coming out of the kitchen across the hallway, a tray in her hands. “Mother,” I sing, and she startles, stopping in her tracks and looking past me. I follow her stare over my shoulder and find not only Brad and Rose, but all my other men too. The fact that they are completely unaware as to Esther’s true identity is escaping me now. I shrug and return my attention to my mum. “Today I buried the man who saved me,” I declare. “The only . . . only fu . . . fucking person in this world whooooo had any t . . . ime for me.” I sway forward, getting my face up close to Esther’s. “Because you bloody didn’t, did you, huh? My own fucking mmmmotherrrr leaving me to be beat . . . beaten, raped, and tortured.” I think I hear a few gasps from behind me. I can’t be sure. “Thanks a million, Mum,” I sneer, blindly reaching for the handrail leading up the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good idea,” she says flatly, and I snort to myself, gazing up the stairs. There must be a million fucking steps.
I tackle the first, squinting, lifting my foot and settling it down on the same step. I hear a collection of gasps from behind me and swing around, a bit to quickly for my pissed head’s liking. Down I go with a whack, my arse hitting the edge of a step hard, my body sprawled, spanning at least ten of the million steps. “When did I get so many stairs?” I ask no one in particular.