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I started drinking shortly before my mother died. She carried on getting worse and worse, and I knew she wasn't going to make it, no matter what the doctors tried and what my father told me. At that point, I turned to the bottle.
I already knew beforehand that she was close to death anyway, we all got told that a case like what she was experiencing was deadly, but I held onto every single piece of hope. She was my mother. She was always there for me like no other person in the world.
I thought she'd make it. I thought that maybe the doctors were wrong, maybe she wouldn't die. That maybe a miracle would happen. She was the strongest woman I've ever known, she'd live, she'd fight it.
But she didn't.
When I lost hope as she neared closer to her end, I used drinking as a way to stop my thoughts about her. I drank to forget about it all, forget about her dying, forget about the pain, forget about my mamá.
I never really stopped drinking, even when she died, even when the pain got less and less. It became a habit whenever something went wrong, or whenever something went right. Drink from the anger or the achievements.
I'm aware it was bad for me, and for my health, but it became a weekly, sometimes daily thing. Like a routine. A habit.
Damiano and Simon know about my drinking, as well as Minnie, and they look out for me the best they can, but it never works. I can't control myself with this, what makes them think they'll be able to?
I did what Damiano said and went straight to my bedroom after Simon had found me in the liquor cabinet downstairs. I slipped into the shower and turned it to cold. Hopefully, to wake myself the fuck up. Once I'd finished with my shower, I went back to the bedroom and shortly after, I heard a knock at my door. Minnie's knock. She always knocks in a way that I know is her. The same way my mother seemed to knock.
"Yes?" I call out, loud enough for her to hear me. I turn over on my bed and sit up. Minnie opens the door, and pushes her trolley inside of the room, walking in and closing the door behind her. She looks over at me and gives me a small smile. She knows I'm still out of it. At least I'm not the worst person at sobering up.
"How are you feeling, querida?" She asks me, walking up to my bed.
"Sí, I'm fine, did you bring some coffee?" I asked her, pointing to the steaming mug placed under a small plate on the trolley.
"I did yes, please drink up, It'll make you better," Minnie said, picking up the plate and holding the mug in place. She comes towards me, pushing the plate closer to me, ushering me to drink it.
I take the mug from her, "I'm not sick, Minnie." She always says that whenever I'm drunk.
She smiles at me, watching me take a sip of the hot coffee. "Oh I know, Miss, but you know what I mean," Minnie tells me. How could I not? I've known her my entire life.
