Lovegame(36)

It turns out, the answer is I don’t know. So much of me is a construct, so much of me is only what others want to see, that I don’t have anything to say to that far away stranger. I don’t have a message to give him, don’t have any words of wisdom. I’m as empty as the bottle at my feet.

I suppose that’s a message in and of itself…Which is why I pick up the bottle and twist the cap back on as tightly as I can, until it’s as air proof as I can make it. And then I pull back my arm and use every ounce of strength I have to throw it as far out into the surf as I can manage.

The ocean catches it, rolls it over. Spins it around and around and around as each retreating wave slowly, inexorably, takes it that much farther away from shore.

It’s getting dark and the tide is getting higher—the water is up to my thighs now and rising fast. I should get up, should make a break for the stairs before I’m completely soaked, but I can’t move. I’m hypnotized by the fate of the bottle, by the thought of where it’s going and who might find it. Only when it becomes too dark to see, when the tide is up to my shoulders and I’m soaking wet, do I finally stumble to my feet.

The bottle is on its own.

I’m tipsy enough now that I weave a little when I walk, but not so drunk that I can’t make it up the stairs or past the pool without incident. Normally, I’d stop at the outside shower and rinse the sand off, but right now I’m too buzzed to be bothered. Besides, a little sand never hurt anyone.

Once I make it back inside, I see the one, lone glass of wine sitting on the counter where I poured it all those minutes ago. It looks lonely sitting there all by itself, and for a moment I think about picking it up. Think about draining it like I did the rest of the bottle.

But in the end, I’m just sober enough to realize adding more alcohol onto my very nice buzz is not a good idea. So, instead of crossing the kitchen, to grab the last of the wine, I make my way, wet and still dripping, through the house to my bedroom. That bath I was thinking of earlier sounds really good right now.

I start taking off my sodden clothes as soon as I hit my bedroom door, shedding the public’s idea of Veronica Romero a little more with each piece that comes off. Then again, I probably took care of that when I collapsed in the surf fully dressed. Either way, by the time I’m naked, I’m just me again. Just plain old, messed up Veronica. I just wish I knew if that was a good thing or not.

I stumble toward the bathroom to start the bathwater, but even before I get to the double doors that separate the master bath from the bedroom, I know there’s a problem. I can hear water running and the maple wood floor is wet beneath my feet.

I’m drunk enough to be confused but sober enough to be concerned, and I throw the doors open in a rush. And find myself staring at my very large, very comfortable bathtub, which is currently overflowing, bubbles and water pouring over the edge and onto the tile floor. From the amount of water on the floor, it looks like this has been going on for quite a while.

What. The. Hell?

I make a mad dash across the room, slipping and sliding on the wet floor and nearly going down twice before I finally get to the bathtub. Once there, I wrench the faucet to the off position and then stand staring at the mess for long seconds as I try to figure out what the hell just happened.

I didn’t do this. I didn’t turn the bath on and then promptly forget about doing it. I didn’t go down to the beach with a bottle of wine while my bathroom flooded. I didn’t.

Did I?

I wrack my clouded brain, go over and over what I remember from the first few minutes when I got home.

I came in through the garage.

Turned off the alarm.

Locked up behind me.

Thought about taking a bath, but decided against it.

I did decide against it, I reassure myself. I didn’t even go into my bedroom, let alone my bathroom.

I didn’t.

And yet…I stare at the overfilled tub, at the soaked bathmat squishing underneath my bare toes. And yet, the tub is full, the bathroom all but flooded.

What the hell is going on?

For the first time, I really regret drinking the better part of that bottle of wine. My head is swimming and nothing makes sense no matter how hard I try to force it.

Eventually, though, I have to do something. I can’t just stand here and let the water continue making its way into my bedroom and onto the wood floor.

With that thought in mind, I grab two big bath sheets off the closest rack, toss them onto the ground at my feet to soak up some of the water—and to make it at least a little less likely that I’ll slip and die in what has become a deathtrap of a bathroom. Then I lean down and twist the tub’s drain plug open.

As I do, my face gets too close to the bubbles—not like I could avoid it considering the things are everywhere—and I get a strong whiff of their scent. It’s familiar, but it’s not the vanilla and black currant bubble bath I usually use in the evenings, nor the bergamot and orange scent I use to energize myself in the mornings.

No, this is the scent of a bubble bath I haven’t used in months.

Belladonna from Alchemic Muse.

I came across it when I was filming the movie, picked it up because the scent made me feel her, helped me get inside her messed up head that much more easily. It also helped me differentiate myself from Celeste when the lines started blurring and I felt like I was being sucked under.