Clutched fetal in her bathtub and too-hot water on her skeletal spine – at least she remembered to take her clothes off this time. Her mind was perfectly lucid, surprisingly lucid considering the wine and the twisted ache that was her body.

She stared at the drain, watching steam like wet ghosts, aware that she forgot to turn on the fan, contemplating emptying her stomach into the shower drain, contemplating climbing from the tub, or leaning from the tub, until her face was inside the toilet. Her body didn’t move though; she guessed she chose neither, letting little drips of warm water collect in her mouth to be swallowed and meet with the vomit filling her up to her collarbone and waiting to be put somewhere.

She was aware that she was probably beautiful just then, beautiful in that classic Bukowskian way, mascara making skid-marks down her face, red lines in the whites of her eyes, making brown eyes browner, more alive, drips of water spilling from her mouth turning her into a human girl fountain. Girl Fountain, that could be the name of a band maybe.