Look how it drips thickly and lushly to the ground. Dutch tilted using the floor as a post-surgical crutch. That last drip drop seeping into the matted rug. Crumbs of stale nachos as the friendly neighbour, with encrusted chunky chocolate ice-cream on dusty pillow case adjacent. Milky and mottled cream rug is dog-haired using cigarette burns as an experimental artist’s facade. The ping of the drop, from bottle edge to bottle neck, crumpling like a failed gymnast to the rim. It drops. Cries itself into the dog matted hair, in mouth, through ash dry lips. Fingers relax like limp tendrils. The emerald bottle leaves the grip. Her eyes close to sleep.

One eye is wrenched open. A blinding light shoots across the room. Down an invisible ski slope and tickling her lip. The other darts open; tingling and curious. She observes her tendrils, loosely clasped around fingerprint smudged emerald. The last drop echoes along the rim. She takes one last gulp (her retched sour saliva that is), from prone to standing. Each toe praying to the light ahead of herself. The bottle looked like rubbish in a community pond now. A stranger in the ocean. She knew what needed to be done.

Like a toddler, she hobbled to the kitchen counter. A hodgepodge of final reminders, Chinese leftovers and stacked drinking receptacles. Clutching with a new found determination, as if she witnessed an act of God and she threw her some kindly words. It buzzed. Then again. The light beamed brightly. Whipping it next to her head, hitting green, she called out:

“Mum, I know we haven’t spoken for a while, but I need your help.”