He was wrong again. He was wrong again about everything. She didn't have withdrawal symptoms when she stopped drinking. She'd looked it up; withdrawal symptoms made both mind and body hurt. But when she didn't drink, her body loved it, and her mind worked faster, sharper, clearer. It was her soul that hurt, hurt more than when she did not. What was lack of food, or sleep, or bacta, compared to the pain that would not stop thudding, ripping her from the inside with every breath, hounded her mind until there was barely any of it left?
Besides, who'd care if she died? All the people she thought cared ended up not. It would be a CIS sponsored funeral with a handful of people pretending to be sad about it and then forgetting about it five minutes later. If she finally managed to die, there would no longer be pain. There would be nothing. She would finally be who she truly was; a nothing.
But then...
Scherezade's face shot up from her knees when Josh claimed it would put the pain on him, that he would be the one to have to carry it for the rest of his life. There was not enough alcohol in the 'verse to make her not understand the meaning behind those words. She wanted to pretend she hadn't noticed it, but she couldn't. Her face was wet again and she breathed hard, her lungs gasping for air.
"I told you not to," she finally found her voice. It was broken, it was weak, it was small. But it didn't matter. "I told you, not to love me. You agreed."
She had to get up. She had to get away from there. She had no such feelings to return to him. If Josh died, she would be saddened, but she would not carry it for the rest of her life, not the way he described he'd be carrying it if she were to die.
Her knees shook violently as she finally pushed herself up from the grass, the bottles of liquor all flying with surprising ease into her hands. She had to find her ship and go, disappear, vamoosh into somewhere where no one could find her. She couldn't stay here.
[member="Josh DragonsFlame"]