You may not recall calling me

Strelein von Rosnete · 01-08-2011, 12:42 AM

[html]

507
Takes place right after the drinkingness with Sylvie and Alaine, vagueness abounds.

By the god's, he was piss drunk. It had started out as an evening with the male seeking to drink himself into a stupor and by the late night, he had safely accomplished it. He had spent the majority of the time introducing Sylvie, the young collie that Alaine had reared, to the wonders of rum and alcohol in general. Somehow, the two of them had gotten drunk. Well, Sylvie had and Strel had gotten almost drunk. But he remembered everything from that time. Nothing bad had happened, nothing to be ashamed of. They had just talked and laughed, but, of course, it had not lasted very long at all.

Alaine had shown up, as she was want to, considering she was a resident here as much as the two drinkers were. Maybe even more so. The medic had discovered the two of them and had been rather annoyed at Strelein for teaching her foster-daughter the wonders of alcohol, but she had not complained when he invited her too. Sylvie, though, had been forced to stop and leave. Good, it would have been a bad, bad thing if the kid had gotten sick all over the place and then Alaine found her. God, Strel would never have awoken from the concussion she would have given him then.

But now he was left all alone, where he started on the couch, with his arms thrown over the back of it. He was grinning like the fool that he was, staring at the empty rum bottle, wishing he had the energy to get up and head back to his room, to collapse into bed with another bottle, maybe of vodka. Strel wanted the room to stop spinning every time he turned his head too fast, and he knew that the room would spin even more violently if he even dared to stand up, however slowly he did it. That was when he remembered exactly why he had wanted to drink that night. Somewhere outside an owl hooted, and the redhead heard its cry, smile slipping away. Strel was feeling like such a fool, drinking to a drunken haze that was not even bad enough to help him forget his reasons for the drink.

Rubbing at his eyes, the tailor pulled his legs up close to him and then proceeded to fall on his side onto the couch, embedding his head against the cushioned arm rest. Legs relaxing to the end of the couch, which was small in comparison to his seven feet of height, Strel stared at the wall before him, at the dusty bookshelves and peeling wallpaper. The bottle was still in his line of sight, but it was a blurry glass thing in his vision. So this was why he feared being alone and drunk. The emotions were awful, making him almost curl up. God, he needed to get back to his room to rest there, not here, not where someone could find him. But he was not tired yet. No, he was not tired at all.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?