Wine Story

"God, it's fucking cold in here. I should call the manager to fix the radiator in the morning," she thought aloud in her empty apartment. A slight shiver caught her by surprise while she grabbed a bottle of cheap cabernet sauvignon and poured a glass, glancing across the table towards her best friend. Her best friend was a quickly emptying bottle of Lorazepam, and it had become her nightly boyfriend; something to make her feel warm and fuzzy inside when she faded away to sleep. "Maybe tonight, I'll sleep alone." But then maybe not, and another pill found its way to her mouth and the taste was covered with wine.

She sat on her couch, which was a stained- with-time futon from a cheap Swedish department store and was unusually comfortable. Only minutes would pass before she felt the loneliness dissipate. Lighting up a cigarette would pass the time, and maybe a book. She was a smart girl, and could read anything and understand what she was reading, but she preferred young adult fiction. The kind of fiction that was labeled “Young Adult” but had the psychology of a real adult. What was a real adult, anyway? She constantly pondered that when she looked at her personal library. These books are far beyond the mental capacity of any average teenager, and held deeper meanings and a sense of profoundness that only an aged person would understand. Maybe it is merely the publishing company’s misunderstanding of young adults today; they certainly aren’t as bright as what she wished they were. Then again, what the hell does an “aged person” mean? Does it mean old, or just wise? She grabbed a book that was only a mere two chapters from being finished.

“Wisdom,” she thought, “Comes from experience. Young adults don’t have this kind of experience.”

The Lorazepam wasn’t working, or at least, not fast enough. She just wanted to feel her lover again, the warm embrace synthesized in her nerves that the pills would bring. She knew she shouldn’t take any more; she just needed to give it some time. The wine should help speed that up.

She heard herself murmur, “Fuck.” It just slipped out, she never meant to actually speak, it was an accidental vocalization of thought. Her boyfriend better show up soon, or else… or else… She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t take another pill, she didn’t want to risk mixing too much drugs with too much alcohol. For a moment, she took pride in her responsible mind. Of course, the wine would surely obliterate all responsibility soon enough. A second glass was poured, and this time, it was poured just slightly more than the previous glass, but no pills accompanied it.

She forgot to eat. She wasn’t really hungry, and the thought of eating hadn’t passed her mind that day. When she looked at her fridge, she felt so lazy. It was full of meats, cheeses, vegetables, and all kinds of things to cook and prepare, but she didn’t want that. She wanted a snack. Nothing was going to be easy tonight. “Ah, fuck this!” she shouted at the seeming emptiness of her fridge. No food would be made without work. She didn’t feel like cooking, she wanted something immediate. The wine might suppress her appetite, just give it some time. And another two sips are taken from the glass.  And another cigarette is smoked.

Normally, she can drink the boys under the table, or at least her friends have said so. Today, with a lack of food, it isn’t working out well. She could feel the wine warming her chest, but her boyfriend still hadn’t come. It was getting late, too, almost four o’clock AM. Or early. Either way, she should be getting to sleep, but it wasn’t going to happen without him. Perhaps another Lorazepam will help. And with that thought, she gave away responsibility for the idea of a comfortable rest, and another pill was taken.

Another half hour went by and she felt like her body was becoming sloppy with its movements, but she still wasn’t tired. She finished a novel by Robert Cormier, and began to pick up another book that she only ever read in short portions between other books, “House of Leaves,” by Mark Danielewski. It was an odd book, and she didn’t know how to read it, so she just took it chapter by chapter, and often had to re-read several parts out of confusion. After only a couple pages, and another empty glass of wine, she had had enough. She put the puzzle of literature down and poured another glass. This time, she decided to put on a particular song on her computer’s playlist. She selected the options and made it repeat one song, a song by Ben Lovett, called, “Eye of the Storm.” And she hummed along during the first few rounds, and sipped at her wine, and wondered why she couldn’t sleep. Why had her boyfriend not come, she called for him twice already. If he won’t come now, she would ask someone else to tuck her into bed, and wish her good night.

She had a bottle of Hydroxyzine, and it was such a small doze that she often took at least seven pills at once, just to make it work. Lorazepam was being such a jerk tonight and not answering her calls that she decided, “Tonight, I’ll take some fifteen!” And that is exactly just what she did, out of anger. Her Lorazepam didn’t come when she wanted it to, and so, with more wine, and more pills, she chased the idea of sleep. She had a busy day tomorrow, she needed as much rest as she could get, and she needed it now. There was cleaning that needed to be done, and she needed to check in on a potential job that she had applied for. She needed rest to function for this.

And rest would never come soon enough. She decided, one last call to him, and I’ll give up for the night. One more Lorazepam. No, another. Two more calls to her love, and she would quit. Another glass of wine, the last of the bottle. And to fill the time until the visit from her lover, she wrote in her journal:

“He won’t come to me. I called him, and he never returns my calls or answers at all. I don’t want to waste his time, or be so clingy, but I would sleep better if I knew he was here.” At this point, she wasn’t even sure who she was writing about. Lorazepam, Hydroxyzine, or maybe even an imaginary man she wanted by her side. “I wish I could understand my mind. Why do I need him to sleep?” The words are becoming increasingly confused with scribbles. All that can be made out from now is a poor attempt at cursive, “I reelly like slep. Its so nicee too dream.” Clearly she had added in some swoops and curves in her writing to make a few misspellings. But she wasn’t sleepy enough. And she called onto Hydroxyzine seven more times and onto Lorazepam three more times, and she was near finished her last glass of cheap wine.

“Tea,” she thought, “Tea will help.” And then she stared at her bottles of pills that lay across the table. “Aspirin will help, too. I drank an entire bottle of wine, after all.” So she took four Aspirin pills with the last gulp of cab-sauv. The recommended dose is two at most, but she had to make sure she avoided any hang-over for the following day. She put some water in her kettle, which was a house-warming gift from her mother when she first moved out into a small studio downtown.

But Lorazepam would still not return her calls. No matter how much time she gave him, he wouldn’t respond. She didn’t need him entirely; she just wanted a good-night kiss before she headed off to bed. And though she said she wouldn’t, she called him again. Twice. And she decided he was just another let down in her life, and she didn’t need him. She had others to love, the empty wine bottle that she threw into the trash bin with more force than usual, and Hydroxyzine would surely help her sleep, and Aspirin would cure her of all her endeavors. And so she called Hydroxyzine again, and once more for Aspirin.

And a few minutes crept by, and she was sick of that song she chose to go on repeat. She changed the song, but kept the repeat setting, and now she was listening to “For You” by Tin Sparrow. She felt so neglected on her couch. Abandoned by sleep, cast aside by any sense of rest or slumber. She kicked the side of the table that served as a holder for her medicinal lovers, and various magazines. It seemed much harder to kick than any tantrum she has had before. Her foot felt heavier, but she tried anyway. Perhaps, she only tapped it, but in her mind, she broke it with force. And then she remembered something she had completely forgotten, something important that might be the reason she is feeling so upset right now. Her doctor had prescribed her Zoloft recently, to help with depression.

“Of course!” she shouted. Of course she was so moody; she forgot the one medication that was supposed to prevent this. But how many days has it been? Three? Four? She grabbed the bottle of what she thought would make her become the person she wanted to be, and took five pills, just to make sure she didn’t skip a dose, dry. They went down hard, and she gagged, but she kept swallowing until it became smooth. Salivate, swallow, salivate, swallow. The water on the pot isn’t hot enough to make tea yet, but it can be heard bubbling.

And now, she is tired. Finally, she finds sleepiness. Tomorrow is going to be a productive day.  “I’ll get up early, and I’ll clean and I will run all my errands.”

So she lay down, and closed her eyes. Lorazepam finally came to visit, so suddenly, and she could feel the presence of her beloved Hydroxyzine as well. They were there to soothe her, to comfort her, and ease her into a dream, and she would sleep well. She felt a tingling, burning sensation in her chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was the Aspirin or her lovers pressing against her. And she closed her eyes, and it feels so easy now.

The water on the stove in the kettle is beginning to whistle. It screams at her, “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” and she hears it, but she won’t respond. Her lover finally answered her calls, all of her lovers followed through. The kettle is just a muffled sound in the background, and like her consciousness, it too will drift away.

And the kettle keeps screaming, “Wake up. Wake up.”

But she won’t.