XXVI. The Girl Who Lived to Drink

This one had fallen far.

She lived near the rail yard in this world, in the husk of a car with no windows, half-buried in rust and weeds. The smell of metal and rot clung to everything. When it rained, the water pooled in the seats; when it froze, the glass shards glittered like frost.

She drank to stay warm.

She drank to forget.

She drank to breathe.

Her father had kicked her out months ago, after she’d stolen from him for the last time. He’d beaten her bloody for it, but it didn’t take. Some lessons never do. The next day, she’d sold his watch for a bottle of gin and called it freedom.

At night, she haunted the bar down the street. It was a place that barely passed health regulations. A thin layer of grime coated everything, the floor stuck to your shoes, and the air smelled of sweat and cheap bourbon.

She was a regular. The kind that never paid. She’d trade whatever was left of herself for a drink, and the men were always willing to oblige. She’d laugh with them, and it would almost sound real. Even drunk, disheveled, with mascara streaking down her cheeks, there was still something graceful about her. Something untouched by all the filth.

That was the worst part. Even ruined, she still looked like redemption.

I watched her deteriorate, day after day, night after night. I watched her slow collapse, from the body tremors, to the hollow eyes, to the nervous agitation of her hands when she was sobering up against her will. The way her beauty became distorted beneath the weight of her choices. It was mesmerizing in the way avalanches are. You don’t look away because you can’t.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t the only one watching.

A man had been following me for days. He kept his distance, a shadow on the edges of my periphery. He wasn’t Okkari. Just human. Too insignificant to warrant my attention. So I didn’t give him any. I would be gone soon, moved on to the next world, and he would just be left with a memory.

So I focused my attention on watching her steady descent to rock bottom.

One night, she stumbled out of the bar just before closing. The streets were empty, wet from a recent rain. She carried a half-empty bottle of vodka like a trophy.

Her steps were uneven, her hair a tangled mess in the orange glow of the streetlights. She walked toward the rail yard, humming a tune that sounded off-key, slurred, but hauntingly sweet.

When she reached the tracks, she finished the bottle, tipped her head back, and laughed at the sky. Some might mistake it for joy, but I knew her well. This was the sound of surrender.

Then she tripped. The bottle shattered. She hit the ground hard, rolled once, and went still between the rails.

For a moment, I thought about leaving her there. The trains didn’t run this late. It wouldn’t matter either way. Like so many other versions, she was already dead, her body just hadn’t realized it yet.

But I didn’t leave.

I crossed the tracks, crouched beside her, and lifted her into my arms. She was lighter than I expected. Her hair smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey. But her skin was still warm.

I carried her to the side, laid her down on the grass, and brushed the dirt from her cheek. Her lips were parted, and I felt her breathing was shallow but steady.

Like this, she looked peaceful. Almost beautiful again.

For a long moment, I knelt there beside her, unsure why I’d bothered. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Or maybe I just couldn’t stand to see another version of her swallowed by the dark without someone trying to intervene.

When I looked up, he was there.

Standing a few paces down the tracks, the air around him trembling faintly with adrenaline and rage.

He was of medium-build and lean, built from hunger and survival. His hair hung in rough blond dreadlocks, tied back with a strip of worn cloth. His clothes were layered and torn, a scavenged military jacket and tactical pants paired with a flannel shirt, all dull and unwashed. His bright green eyes were striking, even from this distance. And although his expression was tight and controlled, I could feel the storm inside him. The urge to intervene in a situation he thought he understood. The belief that he was doing the right thing.

I found his presence intriguing. He shouldn’t have been able to get this close to me without my sensing him. That alone earned him a flicker of my respect.

He took one step forward. He went to speak, but I could already feel his intent. He would give me a warning with an underlying threat. Leave her alone. Or else…

That was all it took to turn respect into disgust.

He didn’t know what she was. He didn’t know what I was. And yet he thought himself righteous enough to tell me what to do?

I reached for him with my mind.

The A’hura flared, invisible but heavy, threading into his thoughts like a scalpel through nerve. His walls were strong, but not strong enough. I saw everything: the war, the nightmares, the wife and child he’d loved and lost, the guilt that hollowed him out and made him wish for a death he couldn’t earn.

And I showed it back to him.

Every sin. Every failure. Every ghost he’d tried to bury.

His mind buckled under the weight of it. The fear spiked so violently that it tore through his body like fever. His knees hit the ground. His breath came in gasps, his fingers clawed the dirt.

When I passed him, I looked down only once at the man broken open before me. I said something cruel then, something sharp enough to cut through whatever faith he still had in himself.

“Even your ghosts are ashamed of you.”

I left him there, and I didn’t look back.

The search continues.

M.

Up Next: The Girl Whose Ashes I Carry