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03-01-2014, 02:11 AM
I'm mid-panic, my eyes still wide as I try to process the predicament that I'm in. It's not good, it's not good. FUCK IT ISN'T GOOD. I start to hyperventilate, as much as a fatty can do. Shit shit shit. She's talking. I stare at her, lips moving, but I can't hear anything. Or can I? I'm not deaf. What is she saying... Who's.. wife... Why.. apples... That's enough to draw me out of my panic. My jaw drops and I stare openmouthed. "No, no. I'm not married. I drink vodka, not cider." I stare a little longer. Then make an "ooohhh" face. "Who's wife, why apples.. that's not what you said was it." Before she can answer, however, my brain has figured out what was going on. I nod to the jug lying awkwardly over my chest. Her focus, I now realize, had been happily on my egg. But my panic had forced her back from pure survival instinct. "I'm almost out of my drink, ma'am. I... I don't know what I'll do when it's gone." That's as far as I'll go to admitting how dependent I am on the vodka that I carry around my neck. That's I've been carrying around my neck for years now. I'm an alcoholic, and I don't plan to ever change. It's my safety net for all the bad. Though now with this egg, the little one that is between my hooves.. maybe that will change. But somehow I doubt it. It would take a lot to reverse.. well... to reverse the past. I glance at my egg and back at her again. "I found it." I say simply, a bit defensively, as if trying to protect it and myself from unspoken accusations that I might have stolen it. I know I don't look the father type, but that doesn't mean I can't be one. That doesn't mean my little egg didn't choose me. But now I'm distracted again, by a pouch that I see lying there on the floor. It looks like... looks like something I've seen before, used by the men back in Russia. "What's that?" I say with a little less gruffness, and more desperate curiosity. I wonder if maybe.. it could be what I think it is. And perhaps have a drop of liquid for my soon to be parched tongue. Perhaps the lady will spare me a troubled fate - aka hangover and withdrawal - and help a poor lad out. Text text text. "Words words words." |
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*You may do anything you wish with Rostislav excluding dismemberment and death.
