February 4, 2015 - Manhattan Anne staggered out of the taxi in the dead of night, her legs too unsteady to follow a straight path. She ended up being supported by the doorman; an old acquaintance, since she had lived there for at least six years. "It's okay," he said. "Come on, Mrs. Walch, you can do this." It was a bit humiliating, given that Anne always came home drunk at the end of the night. Drunk and alone. "You're such a nice guy, Ricky, I reaaally love you." The door attendant smiled, guiding her towards the elevator. He had lost count of how many times the beautiful young woman had declared her love for him, a man of sixty-eight years. He knew she wouldn't remember later. It was all just words in the wind, spoken by someone so drunk she would sleep on the sidewalk if he weren't there almost every night to help her and somehow guide her back to the safety of her home. Ricky knew Anne wasn't having fun. He knew she was sinking. Sinking so fast that for an old man like him, it seemed simply impossible to pull her back to the surface. Anne reached her apartment door and entered without bothering to lock it. He heard the crashes inside, probably Walch stumbling and knocking things over on her way to the couch. He had known her for six years, and every day, addiction and depression consumed more and more of the writer's spirit. Always surrounded by friends, but at the same time, completely alone. Ravaged by the media and bearing the worst reputation a woman could have publicly. Ricky watched from the front row the fiasco and ruin of his favorite writer. A sad sigh escaped him as he looked one last time at the navy-blue door. And inside, Anne felt her consciousness being sucked into a funnel of dreams and nightmares, tormented by loneliness, fear, drunkenness, and all the monsters that had been devouring her slowly over the past few years. The phone ringing incessantly inside the bag still thrown at the entrance was completely ignored. (...) "Do you really think this is what she would have wanted?" Anne's eyes sank into the dark amber liquid in her glass, heavy as anvils. The taste of the cognac was rich and intricate, layered with notes of wood, fruit, spices, vanilla, caramel, honey, and flowers. She could feel the oak spreading along the sides of her tongue while her sister's silent sobs filled the room. Walch felt that the moment she let go of that glass, her entire world would shatter. Her mother's body was being prepared at that very moment for a viewing at the wake, something Anne was certain Daisy would have despised with every fiber of her being. But it had been an almost unanimous decision by three of her four children, and Anne had no choice but to accept, drunkenly, that ridiculous decision of her siblings. She no longer had control over anything in her life. So maybe... this shouldn't matter so much. But it did. "You refused to say she wanted to be an organ donor." Anne stared at Samantha, her eyes sharp with anger. "And you made me look like a fucking liar. This circus you arranged for everyone to cry over mom's body was the only thing she ever said not to do. She wanted to be cremated. That was HER only request." Rising, the brunette felt her legs give way and heard her sister's sarcastic laugh, leaning against the kitchen door frame of their mother's house. Daisy Walch had died suddenly in her sleep the night before. "Seeing your drunk ass waiting for her body would make her soooo proud." Samantha was pissed off. "Shut the fuck up, Samantha. She's not even here anymore." Natural causes, said the autopsy report. Anne couldn't disagree. Her mother had been as sad as an abandoned doll at the bottom of a toy chest. After being left by the father of her four children and having her own family turn their backs on her, Daisy had changed drastically. "You haven't talked to mom in two years. You were disconnected from everything and everyone, and now you show up just to embarrass the whole family. Get a fucking grip, Anne." Samantha walked toward her without hesitation. Fury marked each step on Daisy's wooden floor. "No one knows why you're still here, causing problems. Getting drunk at ten in the morning." She reached Anne so quickly that the brunette had neither the time nor the courage to react. She was drunk, and if she fell now, it would be too humiliating. Gripping the counter firmly, she swallowed hard, bracing herself for whatever her sister would say next. "Eliza doesn't have the guts to say it, but I do. You're an alcoholic, bitch! You need treatment! Get it together!" Samantha continued. With eyes burning, Anne tried to control her racing heartbeat. "Mom cried when she talked about you, ya know? She cried, Anne! And here you are now, all angry because I didn't want them to cut pieces out of my own mother!" Samantha roared, tears streaming down her face. "Call me selfish, I don't fucking care! I don't give a shit about what you think." Gasping for breath, she stepped back. "I honestly don't even want to stay in the same fucking house as you." When Samantha stormed out of the kitchen, Anne still couldn't breathe. This was certainly worse than taking a beating. Daisy had raised her four children completely alone. For some reason only God knew, not a single person ever made Daisy Walch's life easier. She had eaten the bread the devil stepped on and walked the most tortuous path, with endless hours of work. Even when she was home, she relied on her children to help fold and assemble hundreds of thousands of pizza boxes. She worked every possible job to give her four children a decent life. But the most important thing, she forgot over time. While drowning in work, Daisy had pushed her own heart away, and in a way that none of her four children would ever understand, she became absent. Completely and coldly absent, even though she was the only constant figure in the four Walchs' lives for at least ten consecutive years. Amid desperate moves due to eviction and homes infested with rats and roaches, those four children became emotionally unstable adults who, by some miracle, managed to build families and persevere in life. Each with their own ambitions, dreams, and failures. And disputes. Sometimes, Anne felt like she was in a fight she didn't knew why, where, or when she was fighting. Suddenly, she found herself in a terrible survival mode, and over time, a few shots of cognac were the only thing capable of dulling that overwhelming sense of not belonging. Of simply floating through a life that, despite being good and filled with luck, was just... insufficient. Anne brought the glass to her lips and drank almost all the whiskey. Her eyes closed, her heart racing. Like a thirst that never ends, and a guilt that grows every day. Almost like fuel, feeding her most terrible vices. "Calm down, okay?" The gentle voice made her shoulders tremble. She was much closer to Eliza, her younger sister, than to Samantha, the oldest of all the siblings. Eliza knew Anne was drowning and refused to grab the life buoy that could save her life. "She's upset, we all are." If asked, Anne simply wouldn't be able to answer. Whether it was pride, stubbornness, or just blindness. "I... I'm leaving," She whispered. "No, look, Anne... No one... no one really wants you to leave, okay? The truth is... we want... we want you back, Anny." Seven years ago, when she was eighteen, Anne signed a million-dollar contract with a book publisher and became rich and famous almost overnight. She made so much money that the entire family benefited from it. All the businesses were immediately improved with more machinery, space, or employees. Her mother got the house she always dreamed of, though she rarely, if ever, received visits from her children there. "I..." It was like swallowing shards of glass. The writer took a deep breath, her tongue craving another sip. "I'm sorry, Eliza." And before she could slip away in a fast escape, Anne drank the last drop of whiskey from the glass, leaving it on the counter and walking out without meeting her sister's eyes. Back then, while everything seemed to move at an almost angelic pace, Anne Walch's personal life spiraled into a whirl of pills, drugs, strong drinks, and absolutely no emotional responsibility. Anne disappeared. And for those closest to her, watching was very sad. For Eliza, it was devastating. Her sister had withered so much in the last seven years since signing that fucking contract that she now referred to it as the day Anne signed a curse. The fame, the deadlines, the projects, interviews, series, meetings, movies. The pressure. Somehow, she never imagined that all her traumas and fears written romantically would generate so much money. So much attention. A constant focus on everything she did, from lighting a cigarette outside a cinema to wandering the streets of New York wearing mismatched shoes. They saw it all and reveled in another fresh soul being corrupted by a million industry leeches. Anne didn't notice when she stopped caring if she was being followed or not, and after many articles, photos, and scandals, people stopped caring. They grew accustomed to the distorted image of Anne Walch and ceased the hunt, as if she were a witch. Now, she truly seemed to have become one. Mad, cloistered, far from everything and everyone. So alone that Eliza went months without hearing her voice.