Mr. Dewan handed me the bottles in a blue plastic bag. The smell of it, the chemical reek of polymers,
made my stomach churn even harder. “Take care of yourself, Miss Oliphant,” he said, head tilted to one side, unsmiling.
“Good-bye, Mr. Dewan,” I said. It was only a ten-minute walk home but it took half an hour—
the bottles in the bag, the weight in my legs. I didn’t see another living creature in the streets, not even a cat or a magpie.
The light was opaque, rendering the world in gray and black, a bleak absence of tone that weighed heavily on me.
I kicked the front door closed behind me and stepped out of my clothes, leaving them in the hallway where they fell.
I noticed in passing that I smelled very bad—perspiration, vomit and a sweet staleness that must be metabolized alcohol.
I took the blue carrier bag into the bedroom and pulled on my lemon nightgown.
I crawled under the covers and reached blindly for a bottle. I drank it with the focused, single-minded determination of a murderer,
but my thoughts just could not, would not be drowned—like ugly, bloated corpses,
they continued to float to the surface in all their pale, gas-filled ugliness.
There was the horror of my own self-delusion, of course: him, me... what was I thinking?
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