I think of Abe and Fi, my pride and joys, the cutest, most rambunctious and loveable children a woman could ever have. Will they miss me? Will they remember me in a few years after Tiresa becomes their stepmum and showers them with everything I can’t afford?
After a while, the vodka hits my bladder and I stumble to the loo. I manage to avoid looking at the hallway mirror but a glance at the small one in the loo makes me stop and stare. No wonder Wesley treated me rudely. No wonder Tiresa stole my husband. “I am fat and I always will be and no one will ever love me,” I snarl at the image staring back at me.
In a non-sequitur, a moment of clarity, I get the practical idea to put the bottle of aspirin and a glass of water next to my bed, so in the morning when I wake up, I can immediately take something for the wicked hangover which was coming. I open the medicine cabinet. A better idea hit me.
The small bottle of sleeping pills sits on the shelf next to the aspirin. It is an old prescription one I hardly used, so I know there are enough pills left in the bottle to end everything. There will be no hangover in the morning.
Like a ball in a pinball machine, I bounce from wall to wall back to the sofa and plop down. There’s a loud crack and I know some support piece has split. No matter, I think. This sofa won’t be needed by tomorrow.
With difficulty (darn child-proof cap) I open the pill bottle and reach for the vodka. Then my stomach growls. Not surprising, since Wesley’s behavior significantly decreased my appetite and I had hardly eaten any of my meal. It growls again, louder this time, and trails off with a gurgle.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to die on an empty stomach,” I say and push myself off the sofa. The room spins as I try to maintain my balance, then the floor rushes closer and my vision goes black.
***
“Bella?” Cat calls through the front door after knocking several times. She turns the knob and pushes on the door. It opens.
“Bella, are you—yes, you are home,” Cat answers the question for herself. Bella is sprawled on the floor. She doesn’t entertain any suspicions of foul play on the part of Bella’s date for the evening. It’s not due to her heightened senses honed from years of dangerous living on the streets from which she derives her conclusion with Holmes-like efficiency. It’s a matter of observation: an empty bottle of wine, a not-so-empty bottle of vodka, a full bottle of sleeping pills.
“Poor, dear girl. The date bombed, but you’ll be okay. Just remember to take the pills before you drink when committing suicide.”