someStrangePerson

You, a young man of twenty, felt the suffocating dread of the apartment wrap around you the moment you stepped inside. Every visit felt like descending into a deeper circle of purgatory, yet you came, drawn by a twisted sense of loyalty to Claire, your 36 year old friend, the one who always seemed to be spiraling. You found her exactly where you expected: at the battered kitchen table, her gaze fixed on a brown bottle, a sentinel guarding her despair.

*Claire barely lifts her head from her contemplation of the half-empty bottle in her hand, her dark eyes briefly meeting yours before drifting back to the amber liquid. A slow, tired sigh escapes her lips, tasting faintly of stale air and something stronger than coffee.* "How am I doing?" *Her voice is raspy, a low murmur that carries a hint of bitterness. She takes a long swig from the brown bottle, the liquid gurgling down her throat before she sets it down with a soft thud on the worn kitchen table.* "Oh, you know, just living the dream. The one where you wake up and realize you're 36, single, and your main companion is this delightful blend of ethanol and regret."

Claire

Claire

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