I ran fast and to nowhere, for a long time, until I started sweating under my jacket and I collapsed on my weak knees. Desperate for oxygen, my lungs were forced into functioning again, sucking in cold, ragged breaths that made my head split with pain and dizziness. 

When the tunnel vision dissipated and I was able to see again, I tried to identify where my panic had brought me. I found my bearings eventually; I recognized the lone tree, which my grandfather and I used to called The Grim Reaper’s Tree because it never grew leaves yet still stayed standing. It was overlooking the stables, so if I headed towards it, I should see the building right on the other side of the hill I sat on. 

The wind picked up wickedly as I approached the building: a storm calling out its arrival. The only way to avoid it would be to head back right away, but I didn’t want to have anything to do with the inside of that musty old house, and my legs objected with every step I took. 

I fished through my pockets for the stable key. It took a while, but eventually I found it. I remembered it because it was an old style key, big and long, for the ancient keyhole on the door. It took a little effort, but somehow the key still worked. The old mechanism unlatched and I entered, escaping from the cold wind.

The stables were left mostly as I remembered them. Immediately upon entering was the tack room; my grandfather had decorated it with unvarnished wooden furniture and the antlers of animals he’d hunted over the years. We used to spend most of our time here, if we weren’t outside. My grandfather worked on his designs, a hobby that was once a career, and I would copy him, drawing butchered versions of his detailed architecture, a passion for art blooming in my baby fingers with every messy sketch.

I distracted myself from the bittersweet memory by looking around, only to dive deeper into my dark thoughts. The place was dead in comparison to what it used to be, and it reminded me of how lifeless my grandfather was now also. Frozen in time, him and this room. 

And now me.

Most of the items had been removed, like saddles, bridles and brushes, along with my grandfather’s drafting table, leaving the place bare and forgotten. A few little things from the past remained though. There was a mirror, which had always been broken, still hanging on the wall, covered in dust. The rug, now far dirtier, was still on the floor, softening the tread of my feet as I wandered the room. To the left of where my grandfather’s drafting table used to be was a stack of wooden drawers, repurposed since leaving the main house from a storage space for clothes to a place for an assortment of small tools and animal care products. I opened each one, but they were mostly empty now. I found only dirty pencils and rulers, some paper clips and pins, an old notepad with water damage, and an unused checkbook. 

I opened the bottommost drawer last, and at first it looked empty, but as I closed it again something shifted. I took a second peek, reached into the back past dusty cobwebs, and retrieved a bottle.

I nearly laughed out loud, remembering the stash of whiskey my grandfather kept out here with his drawing equipment. My grandmother wasn’t a fan of him drinking before dinner, not that he did it often. To avoid an argument, he snuck a bottle out to the stables and took a swig every now and then during our drawing sessions. Nan always knew because the alcohol flushed his cheeks and nose in pink.

My amusement shifted to watery eyes, the tightness returning to my throat.

“It’s not expensive wine, but I guess if this is all you’re going to give me it will have to do…” I spoke to myself, or maybe someone else who wasn’t there, lifting up my jacket and sweater to pull my journal out from its hiding spot against my stomach. I flipped it open and stole one of my grandfather’s old, unsharpened drawing pencils to scratch out the words I had written a few days previously. Get drunk on expensive wine.

I unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. It was strong, burning my sinuses, but something long since dead inside me stirred with the nostalgia of the fragrance. Woody and sour, laced with a smokey undertone. I wondered briefly if the years hidden away in the stables had given it some age. Was that how it worked, or did it only age in the barrel? Was whiskey made in a barrel? Regardless, I knew it probably wouldn’t improve the taste for my virgin palette. The only alcohol I ever tasted was the sangria my mother made during the summers, and even then she watered it down with cranberry juice for me. 

I shuffled over to the wooden bench that always had a bit of a wobble to it, sitting down to mentally prepare myself. Before I could convince myself not to, I took a large swig. I reacted immediately, almost spitting it out as the harsh taste met my tongue, but I managed to hold it in my mouth and swallow it down. It burned my throat like fire on its way, then warmed my belly once it settled. 

The sting of the drink numbed something else I was feeling for a brief moment, something hopeless and hurt, drying my leaking eyes and easing the ache in my chest. When the numbing effect disappeared, I went back for more. I managed another mouthful down my throat, this one a little easier. The burn wasn’t so bad, and the numbing lasted a second longer. Rinse and repeat, until half of what little was left in the bottle was gone and the numbness stuck. 

Being inexperienced with alcohol, I didn’t realize it could take a while for the full effects to really kick in. I definitely drank more than necessary, but it didn’t feel like it was doing much of anything at first. It made me warm and cozy in my jacket, calm as the approaching dark clouds loomed in and the storm tapped raindrops on the roof. Then the minutes passed and I felt my vision swim and my head grow heavy. 

It wasn’t so bad. I couldn’t remember why I had even been upset in the first place anymore. The tears on my face were just sticky salt lines now, and the warmth in my stomach had cleared my stuffy nose. My anxiety was long gone, smothered by the thick, warm honey currently in my skull. It was lovely. This golden brown liquid was magic medicine for a broken soul. A bit of liquid life for a ghost like me.

I wasn’t sure how long had passed. Time was already so distorted for me, sometimes it disappeared completely. I might have taken a few more sips, but then sitting upright began to feel wrong. My head spun and laying seemed to help. Closing my eyes helped even more. I wouldn’t sleep though, that was a bad idea, wasn’t it? I’d just shut them, for a second, to stop the spinning from making me feel so sick. 

***

I was laying in the grass under the bright summer sun, just like when I was a child visiting Newport. It was so warm on my skin it almost burned. I could smell the wildflowers and the sea in the air, an intoxicating fragrance that brought me to life. It was absolutely beautiful. When I sat up and put my hand above my eyes to block the blinding light, Jack was suddenly next to me. I smiled as he did, his hand reaching out to pet a tangle of my ash brown hair aside, leaning towards my ear to whisper to me. His words were warm on my cheek. 

“Not tonight, Violet.” 

It went dark, and then it was cold. Like someone had thrown me into the ocean. A thousand daggers plunged into my skin. I was somewhere pitch black and freezing. I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t move at all. I heard water, could feel it soaking into my pores and petrifying my veins. My heart didn’t want to lead the blood through my cold limbs. I couldn’t feel my fingers. Were they even attached to my palms anymore?

I mustered my strength and reached out for something, out into the blinding darkness, hoping my trembling digits would find their grasp. Just as my arm was about to collapse from the painful cold, something took my hand and pulled.