𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔

𝑹𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒗 (𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒔 "𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓")

Twenty-four hours. It had been an eternity since I last saw her face, the absence of her playful banter and infectious laughter casting a heavy shadow over me. I felt as though part of me had vanished along with her. My daughter—my beautiful Cara—had simply disappeared, and the reality of it settled into my bones like a chilling fog.

Last night flashed through my mind like an uninvited specter. I remembered the bar, the incessant clinking of glasses, the warmth of tequila sliding down my throat. But after that, nothing. It was as if a thick veil had descended over my consciousness, wiping away memories that usually danced crisply in my mind. I grasped at the edges of my recollections, but they slipped away like grains of sand.

“Rory?” The voice jolted me back to reality, and I blinked through the haze. Charlie’s voice was a lifeline on the other end, but even his concern felt distant, muffled by the fog wrapping around me.

“Yeah, sorry…” I mumbled, trying to shake off the cobwebs. Where was I? The dimly lit bar staggered back into focus around me, though the question of why I was still there lingered like a bad taste.

“Where...is...Cara?” His words cut through my stupor, each syllable heavy and weighted with the anger I could read between the lines.

“I...don’t know.” The truth hung in the air like a haunting specter. Cara. My reason for being in this place, drowning my sorrows in liquid oblivion.

She had been missing for more than twenty-four hours. Panic rumbled within me, though I resisted it—called the police as soon as that clock ticked past the threshold. I was still waiting for them to respond, my hope hanging by a fragile thread. The longer I sat in this empty chair, the more my heart sank. She was more than just my daughter; she was my everything.

“I’m coming home. We’ll look for her together,” Charlie said, and I felt a flicker of solidarity before the call ended. I powered off my phone and shoved it into my pocket, desperately trying to numb the growing knot in my stomach. The alcohol swirled in my system like a confounding fog, blurring the edges of my thoughts.

“Rory? You okay?” a voice questioned from far away. It barely registered, muffled like a distant echo as I struggled to keep my eyes open. When I finally looked up, concern stitched into my friend’s face cut through the haze.

Suddenly, I felt the stool wobble beneath me, tipping over as the cup slipped from my grasp, its contents spilling to the floor. My heart felt heavy in my chest, a pounding that was unnerving and painful. I couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong as everything faded to black.

When I next opened my eyes, harsh lights bore down on me, illuminating a sterile room. I groaned, wincing against the brightness as I attempted to gather my thoughts. My head pulsed with discomfort, and I rubbed my temples slowly, each heartbeat resonating in my ears like a solemn drum.

“Rory?” A voice cut through the fuzziness, steady and authoritative. I squinted up and saw a doctor peering down at me, clipboard in hand.

“Yeah?” My voice came out hoarse, and I began to scan the room, taking in the whitewashed walls and the familiar scent of antiseptic.

“I’m Dr. Chasse, a cardiologist. How are you feeling?” He wore a kind smile, but my confusion only deepened as I processed his words.

“A heart doctor? What…” I attempted to sit up, but an unnerving sharp pain startled me back down, my chest constricting. Dizziness washed over me like a tidal wave, and I quickly tried steadying myself, panic creeping up from the pit of my stomach.

“Easy, easy… you need to rest a few days, Rory.”

“Why?” I asked, bewildered. Admittedly, I didn’t push my body hard, and I had always considered myself healthy.

“It’s your heart. The alcohol you've consumed has taken a toll on your body—”

“How could that be?” I interrupted, disbelief rising. Alcohol was just a drink, a release, something that made it easier to forget. “I’ve been drinking for years, and I’ve always been fine.”

“It can indeed affect your body more than you think. When consumed in large amounts, it can disrupt how your body operates. It can even rupture your heart—”

“Are you saying... too much alcohol can kill me?” I tried to frame it as a joke, desperate for some relief from the weight of his serious gaze.

“Yes… I’m afraid so.”

The gravity of his answer shocked me into silence. Confusion reigned in the forefront of my thoughts while the gravity of his words sank in. How could this be? I was at a loss, floundering for understanding, clinging to the idea that quitting drinking should be straightforward. But maybe nothing was easy anymore.