After tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning, she rose finally to face the day. To face another lonely day of misery and unperturbed silence. She’d been getting two hours nightly for several months now and it was seriously taking its toll on the previously lively face.

Her lack of sleep had left its imprint on her face, but she cared not – she had nobody to impress. The dark circles beneath her eyes were the least of her worries, and she barely gave them a passing thought as she caught sight of herself in her dresser mirror.

No, Ms Tina Kennard had deeper issues to tackle.. Like how to get a full bottle of Vidka down her throat in under a minute.

Having emptied the mentioned bottle, she allowed her weak body to slide down the kitchen unit, not caring as her back hit several handles hard. She rested her heavy head on her knees and let the familiar tears fall freely.

No matter how drunk she got, no matter how much her constant crying exhausted herself, she constantly found herself sleepness. She was a broken woman, a lonely bitter and severely cleft woman. Days went by and all she could do was sit, cry and occasionally eat. She hadn’t seen anybody for weeks. She’d last left the house two weeks ago to restock the alcohol cabinet and get in some food. Her electricity had been cut off because she’d failed to bother with payments and her water supply was fast approaching the same fate.

She was steadily losing grip.

Sometimes she cried so hard, she lost all reason and forgot why she’s started. As soon as her memory refreshed, she found the pain was intensified, as though she was re-experiencing everything for the first time and she cried even more.

None of her clothes fitted her anymore; she had become so skeletal. Her constant drinking did not replace the natural body fat that food allowed. Day and night, she wore the same stained jogger pants, the drawstrings pulled tight against her jutting hip-bones. She didn’t shower and she didn’t change. She merely fell onto her bed when the twenty-third hour approached. She wore her grease-ridden hair pulled back into a loose, messy bun.

Her body had been full before; her figure womanly and exciting. Now it was gaunt and frightening. Her face conveyed one of the biggest changes of all. The place where a look of content happiness used to settle, was now occupied by a look resembling that of a condemned person. Her mouth; a trembling book of unspoken apologies. Her eyes; empty, dull chasms.

She sat for another few hours blinking at the floor while whispering a single name vehemently, over and over.

Bette.

She often thought of Bette. Bette sleeping. Bette eating. Bette laughing. Bette’s hair. Bette’s eyes, nose, mouth, neck, torso, abdomen. Bette.

Always Bette.

She sometimes, fleetingly, added herself to her mind’s eye – Not how she was now, but who she used to be. She’d shout a fierce "No!" whenever she allowed her visions to place herself beside her love. No, she believed Bette was better without her. Had always been better without her.

And always will be better without her.

Another few hours, another couple of litres. By now, she could lie and pretend she didn’t care – Her favourite hours. She could lay back and giggle stiffly that her life was so pathetic. A half life.

More hours and she’d remember to eat a cracker or two before sloping off to her room, emerging hours later, cleansed of the toxins and looking for a refil.

Yes, Tina kennard had deeper issues than how her eyes appeared. Unfortunately for Tina, there was nobody there to see her downward spiral. There was nobody there to watch her cry.

And there was nobody there the day she slipped on spilt Vodka. And finally slept.