“This, this is the only thing that dulls the pain,” slurred Cheryl, holding up her glass against the dim, smoky light. The caramel liquid swirled gently against the glass, intoxicating her eyes as it swayed and rolled like waves before she downed it one, intoxicating her soul.
“It’s what caused the pain in the first place,” said Cane, making a grab for the bottle, now half empty.
“You don’t understand. No one does!” she spat.
“Then let me in. Let me help you.”
“It’s too late. I’m broken, Cane. The day I got in that car-”
“Stop! We know what happened. You served your time. I don’t know why you keep on hurting yourself like this, hurting me. I already hurt, Cheryl. I lost a son that day too.”
An unwelcome silence hung heavy between them. She knew Cane hurt. She knew she caused it. Why did he think she drank? Every day, she woke up to see his sallow face etched in pain, his dull eyes devoid of seeing any beauty especially when he looked upon her. The one who took from him the most precious, innocent gift. The pain tore at her from the inside out, gnawing and gnashing as it feasted on her being.
“I’m going to bed,” Cheryl said, tipping over the chair as she clumsily got up. She swiped the bottle from the side as Cane could only look on.
The sound of the bottle plonking to the floor made Cane get up from the settee. He sighed, knowing Cheryl would be done. But he still loved her; somewhere deep down, he loved her. Every night he had to remove the bottle from the floor or bed.
“Hey, Baby,” she murmured. “Look, watch the colours paint,” she said. “It’s so pretty.”
From the door, a shaft of light swept across the floor towards the bed. Cheryl lay on her front, her head hanging over the bed, her long dark hair hiding her face. Her bare, pale arm moved ever so slightly as her finger twirled and stirred. It was then Cane noticed red. Lots of red. It ran down her arm, pooling on the wooden floor where her finger swirled, mixing with the spilt caramel liquid.
“I . . . feel . . . no . . . pain,” she whispered, before her finger hung motionless.
Written for FlashmobWrites hosted by Cara and Ruth
Choice of prompts: "fit the pieces back together" or/and "watch the colours paint"