She’s vomitting words like a helpless bulimic, trapped inside her own addiction. Nothing satisfies her, nothing is enough.
“I don’t know, I don’t know if i’ve said enough…said…told you enough…that i’m sorry…was accident…don’t…said enough.”
Her speech slurred together, smeared and shot with the hands of whiskey and wine. There is mascara running down her face; long, aphotic tendrils that wire their way down her cheeks, making dark veins where porcelain skin shows brightly underneath.
“I can’t…nobody says…hurt…i’m…sorry…explain..can’t…help.”
Nothing makes sense to me, to her. Unintelligable words spew forth and I’m picking out consciousness where the alchohol has been. Through her fluttered passage of regret and imploration she managed to utter help.

She lapses into unconsciousness. A step closer to death. A step closer to peace.

I kissed her forehead and let her turmoiled soul claw its way out of the hell she created. This was a demon she needed to conquer over alone.