[ warning; a lot of mature content. ]

one, two, three, four - this isn't a enough - five, six, seven, eight: this will never be enough.

she's running out of vodka, she's running out of soju and pepsi. there's nothing else to swallow down and slowly burn her throat as it slowly goes to through her stomach.

the bar is too crowded and noisy, she'd rather sit in the comfort of her own living room, in the house that she lived her pathetic life in. her hand gripped the near empty bottle of alcohol, the shot glass was knocked over on the table, it was easier to take full swigs from the bottle itself.

the television was on, but silent. it's the middle of the night, she doesn't want to wake up her son.

the migraine is pounding against ever inch of her skull, it feels as if it'd burst any second, and she's tired of waiting for it to happen. again, she'll drown herself in alcohol, and hope, her pain will wash away.

her husband is in a different city, playing a soccer match somewhere. he almost refused to go, but she forced him, just so she could stay home and get drunk.

now she was regretting it. when her drinks were all used up, and she couldn't even bring herself to stand, he wasn't here to carry her upstairs.

and she couldn't take option two, rather than drinking her life away yet again, he wasn't home for her to make him fuck her brain dead. make her body numb to the point she couldn't feel anything at all, including the crippling depression and misery. temporary pleasure would take over, she'd fall asleep and wake up beside the man that she felt no love for her. the man that took her hand in marriage, the man that would give his life up for her in an instant, the man that she unintentionally made suffer.

there is no love here, this isn't love.

the white haired girl chokes on her tears, over and over. clamping a hand over her mouth. she shouldn't make a sound, she shouldn't wake her son up.

for him to see like this, she'd rather die.

then again, that isn't saying much. she'd rather die than do anything else at all.

besides, her other son is waiting in the afterlife for her. her father is waiting there too, but probably not for her.

without realizing, her sobs had become wails, and she couldn't stop anymore.

slamming her hand down on the coffee table, she forced herself to stand up, and drag herself to the kitchen. opening a cabinet, she pulled down the basket with all her medications.

anxiety, depression, insomnia, ptsd, there's a pill for everything they say.

a capable young woman. a capable young woman.

no capable woman wants to attempt suicide again.