The Fence || h. s.

42 || True Nature

TW: Most of this chapter can be very triggering for those struggling with addiction, depression, or any form of substance abuse, so please be wary of that before reading. (If you need a summary of the chapter, please let me know. I'd be happy to provide it for anyone who'd rather skip the chapter.)

"–and once your secrets are out in the open, you don't have to hide behind them anymore."

"Yup." I slur at the TV screen, swaying unsteadily in my seat. "Well said, Meredith Grey, well said. Unless he's a coward who keeps hiding even though there's nothing to hide anymore." A dry chuckle leaves my mouth. "Wait, that made no sense… or did it?" 

"I'm so sorry," Derek attempts to warn his current girlfriend about the upcoming disaster in the form of his still very present wife. 

"Shut the fuck up, Derek!" I screech drunkenly, absolutely outraged by the scene unfolding in front of me.

"The problem with secrets is even when you think you're in control...you're not."

"Mhm. Mhm." I mumble, chugging the rest of the wine in one go. "You hear that, H? You should have watched this show with me. Very educatio–" I hiccup, "educational."

"—and you must be the woman that's been screwing my husband."

"Aha! S'riiight. Lemme tell you a little somethin', Meredith… Fuck men. Fuck the patriarchy. It's better to screw anything that moves, no feelings involved, 'cause men like McDreamy? They do nothin' but fuck you up… aaaand I said 'fuck' again." My right arm stretched out to its limits, I try to grab the wine bottle only to end up sliding off the sofa with a painful moan. "Fuck."

That's really hitting a new kind of low for me, both literally and figuratively.

"He sure is charming, though. Just look at that smile…" I murmur from my new spot on the floor, my eyes still fixed on Derek's face which has now begun to merge with someone else's—the one face that I'd rather forget. "And the dimples…abs. His tattoos. And the hands. Oh, God! Those hands. And that big, beautiful dick." I roll onto my side, letting out a pitiful sob. "Screw him for being so perfect." 

My pathetic crying fit intensifies once I realize there's not a single drop of wine left after my early-morning drinking binge. But, since the area beneath the coffee table has practically become my new makeshift wine cellar, I don't have to walk far to get the next bottle at all. That might have proven difficult in my current state.

I'm in the middle of pouring myself another glass when my phone suddenly lights up with an incoming call. Practically launching out of my seat, I end up accidentally knocking the bottle over. The red liquid spills all over my grey joggers, irreversibly staining the fabric… not that I care. 

"Hello?" I answer, sounding like I've just run a marathon.

"A, what the hell is going on with you?" a very annoyed voice answers.

"Oh. Asa. Hi," I mumble, feeling much like a deflated balloon. My enthusiasm just about faded from a hundred to a zero. "What's up, buttercup?"

"Are you drunk?" he asks with an obvious hint of worry in his tone. "Isn't it nine a.m. in Malibu?"

"Lay off me, dad. I had like a single glass of wine." Multiplied by ten, that is. "It makes for an excellent addition to your morning oatmeal, haven't you heard?"

"Aw," Asa coos affectionately. "Is my girl missing her boo? Don't worry, ten days will pass in a flash. You two will be back to going at it like bunnies before you know it."