She isn't powerless.
Each keystroke comes quick and sure, too certain for backspace, unapologetic even in her self-corrections. She can stop anytime. She chooses not to, glass held aloft. Not a drop spilled, not a word stymied, perfect control.
The liquor cabinet fortress she breaches nightly, daring raids that would do Jake proud. It is a choice. Her decision when her forays become diurnal, when the empty bottles betray that truth. She dreams her mother's ghost.
Frustration consumes her.
The vodka burns, the gin fizzes, and no mother can intercede.
She'll quit when she's told, power taken.
She'll quit never.