So I drink some more.
I gulp it all down until the bottle is empty and I’m hurling it across Miller’s office in a temper, annoyed and deranged. My eyes fall onto the masses of other bottles and I randomly select and swig, turning and staggering over to the bathroom. I collide with the wall, the door, the frame, until I’m propped up against the vanity unit and staring at a mess of a woman in the mirror. Tears black with mascara are streaming down my flushed cheeks, my eyes are glazed and haunted, and my heavy blonde hair is an array of tangled waves, framing my pale face.
I see my mother.
I look at my reflection with utter contempt, like it’s my archenemy, like it’s the thing I hate most in the world.
Right now . . . it is.
Lifting the bottle to my lips, I glug down more alcohol while holding my own eyes. Then I take a deep breath and stumble over to Miller’s desk. I pull drawers open, swipe my hands through the precisely placed items within, messing up his perfectly neat arrangements, until I find what I’m looking for. I gaze down at the shiny metal as I flex my hand around the handle, taking sporadic sips from the bottle while I think.
After staring blankly at my find for an eternity, I stand and wobble back to the bathroom, slamming the bottle down on the counter. I look up at myself, noting an expressionless face, and bring my hand to my head. Clenching a massive chunk of hair, I open the scissors and snap them shut around my locks, leaving me with a handful of blonde and a scraggy section of hair that’s half the length it once was. Strangely, stress seems to flow out of me. So I grab another section and hack it off, too.
‘Olivia!’
I let my drunken head flop to the side where I find Miller at the doorway of the bathroom. He’s a wreck. His dark waves are a chaotic mess, his face and collar are splattered with blood, his suit is ripped, and he’s wet through. His chest is heaving, but I’m unsure whether it’s a result of exertion or if he’s shocked by what he’s found. My expression remains straight, and it’s only now, when I’m seeing the horror on his notoriously impassive face, that I remember all of the times he’s warned me never to cut my hair.
So I pull at another section and take the scissors to it, chopping away manically.
‘Olivia, fuck, no!’ His body flies towards me like a bullet fired from a gun and his hands start to grapple with me.
‘No!’ I scream, twisting away, holding on fiercely to the scissors. ‘Leave me! I want it gone!’ I throw my elbow back into his ribs.
‘Fuck!’ Miller yells. His teeth are clenched, the pain clear in his tone, yet he refuses to give up. ‘Give me the fucking scissors!’
‘No!’ I haul myself forward, finding myself suddenly free, and swing around wildly, just as Miller comes at me. My hands fly up instinctively, my body going into protective mode, and his tall, lean body collides with me, knocking me back a few paces.
‘Fuck!’ he roars, and I open my eyes, finding him on his knees before me. I step back some more as I watch him slap a palm over his shoulder. My wide eyes look down at the scissors in my grasp and I see thick red liquid dripping from the blades. I gasp and my grip immediately releases, letting them tumble to the floor at my feet. Then I collapse to my knees as I watch him shrug off his suit jacket on a few winces until I’m confronted with a white shirt soaked in blood.
I gulp back my fear, my remorse, my guilt. He rips his waistcoat open, followed in quick succession by his shirt, sending buttons popping and flying in all directions. ‘Shit,’ he spits, inspecting his wound – the wound I’m responsible for. I want to comfort him, but my body and mind are on shutdown. I can’t even speak to apologise. Hysterical cries are tumbling from my lips as my shoulders jerk and my eyes are so full of tears, I struggle to see him anymore. My intoxication isn’t helping my distorted vision. It’s unquestionably a good job. Seeing Miller injured and bleeding is bad enough. Knowing I’m the cause for his pain is bordering unbearable.
And with that thought, I haul myself to the toilet and throw up. It comes and comes, the alcohol still strong and burning my mouth as my hands brace on the seat and my stomach muscles twist and knot. I’m a mess – a frail, wretched soul. Hopeless and living in hopelessness. A cruel world. And I can’t cope.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Miller mumbles from behind me, but I’m too remorseful to chance turning and confronting my wrongs.
My forehead meets the toilet seat when my retching finally subsides. My head is pounding, my heart is aching, and my soul is broken.