Essay

She opens her fridge. Stark. An apple, an avocado, some milk-- skim. What is she hiding? College student. Where's the frozen waffles? Where's the beer? Her face is tired, uneven, jaded. She grabs the apple. Bites into its green firmness. Flashback
She brushes her teeth. Make-up. Heels. Hair. Flashback. She's equipped and ready, but she's forgetting one last thing. She's looking. Behind those, empty. Under there, empty. Above that, empty. She desperately searches for substance, among the empty bottles, her empty soul. She's found her fix, the fuel that drives her to happiness.
Music muffled by the brick walls and glass windows from the speakers inside the party, she enters the door, hands at her sides, peering through the crowd. Her hair's cute. I like her outfit. The "beautiful" people surround her. She feels uneasy, too self-concerned. Time to loosen the timid paralysis that consumes her. Whiskey, her only friend- the fun times, lover- the sexual arousal, the father- the comfort. It's all there, all in one. Shot number one- easy. Shot number two- even better. Shot three- went down the wrong tube, she's coughing. Flashback. Shot numbers 4, 5, 6, down in a matter of minutes. She grabs a beer, a simple accessory. Now she's ready to enjoy herself.
She's dancing. She waves her arms in the air. She's making out with guys... and girls. She falls down. She gets up. She falls a couple of times. Bruises form all over her, but she doesn't seem to notice, or care. Her friends regard this saturday night behavior as normal. The therapist tells her the "normal" person can't even finish one beer. She does NOT believe that because she knows plenty of people that drink a couple forties before they feel anything.
She's brushing her teeth again at the party, as if she can brush the alcohol right off her breath. She mumbles her goodbyes. Everyone responds making her feel special and appreciated, that they enjoyed her presence at the party, which they probably did. Fellow partygoers typically don't mind the drunk girl making out with random people, as long as she's not puking. That's the give-away sign that this bitch needs to leave. Even if they weren't nicely saying fare-well, she probably wouldn't care, she's drunk.
In her car, the music is blaring. She zooms through yellow lights, cuts the corners, dodges into her driveway, and stumbles out the car and up the steps. She takes off her heels and most clothing. She stumbles to the bathroom to brush her teeth one last time before heading to the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator door. The stark light shines on her sullen face as it lies flat against the hardwood floor.