Chapter Text
“One sip wouldn’t hurt me, right?”
Spinner whispered to herself, staring at the small bottle of gin her father kept in his little liquor cabinet. Really it was just the bottom cupboards in the kitchen counters, and it was full of relatively the same thing—whiskey. Its all her father ever drank, it seemed. But that bottle of gin was like a heartbroken surprise waiting for her. She’d discovered it days earlier when looking for something she misplaced. Her mom was always the one who drank gin or vodka or whatever else that Spinner didn’t yet know the names to.
But her mom was dead. She couldn’t drink this.
Clearly her father wasn’t either, because it was still full, so it must only be here to remind him of what precious thing he’d lost four years ago. Sometimes Spinner wanted to smack him around and scream at him for getting drunk every night. They were outlaws, dammit! They didn’t have the safety net to get wasted every night before bed. She could barely wake her father up the few times they actually had been in trouble in the night, and every time she did, she felt a small rush of fear when he got angry at her, until that anger was directed towards the nearby threats. She’d created a system where she’d stay up all night unless he was sober or tipsy, and then she’d nap as much as possible during the day. That was pretty easy, since so far, the small town they were hiding in was quiet, and didn’t even seem to know her fathers face.
Her father wasn’t even home tonight—he’d gone out to deal with something, and that usually meant he was gathering information or resources, and those typically led towards escape plans from the bounty hunters and lawmen that had trailed them everywhere ever since Spinner was just five years old. She was fourteen now and had matured faster than she should. Mentally, anyway. physically she was lean and small—a fishbone in her fathers’ words.
Not like he wanted a daughter, anyway.
She shoved that thought down and kept staring at the gin in the bottom cabinet, reminding herself that if her father decided to come home early, he would be very upset to find her in the kitchen crouched to the ground and rummaging through his drinks. So, she steeled herself as she grabbed the bottle and stood up, setting it down on the counter next to the sink as she looked for a glass. Not many, and none were clean. Typical. Her father never cleaned anything anymore. Their little safehouse here would be a garbage dump if it weren’t for her. She wondered if it would be smart using a glass, anyway. He could see it, take a tentative sniff and realize what Spinner had done. Or a dozen other things Spinner couldn’t stop from imagining. They all ended with her father yelling at her for being stupid.
At least the seal was already broken, so she’d never get caught for that. She twisted off the cap and took a careful sniff, then pulled her head back at the sharp smell that hit her nostrils. Why did alcohol always smell so terrible and bitter?
“One sip if I hate it, two if I like it.” Spinner mumbled to herself. She raised the bottle to her mouth, tipped her head back a little, letting the liquid hit her and…
Jesus Christ, it’s burning me! Spinner thought as she coughed. It was like liquid fire, yet the gin itself was ice cold, just like the rest of the house. She closed her eyes, took some careful deep breaths through her nose and counted to ten before looking back at the bottle. She frowned. Did her father’s whiskey burn like that? Or maybe worse? She certainly wasn’t about to find out. But… it did warm her up. And the house was frigid, which meant she always had to wear her jacket and poncho overtop of each other since her father refused to let her use the fireplace alone. And now that the burn was gone, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was bitter or if it was sweet when it hit her tongue. She took another cautious sip to find out. It still burned her throat, still made it hard to breathe. She could feel herself warm up, though. Especially in the chest, and she hadn’t realized how cold she was there. Often, she described it as an empty hole sitting there, but that wasn’t logical. Then again, she sometimes pretended logic wasn’t a thing. Maybe tonight was one of those illogical nights, where she thought in only metaphors and silly phrases.
Another sip.
And another. And another.
And maybe a few more. It felt good being warm again.
So good! She wasn’t cold anymore! But she wasn’t ready to take her poncho or jacket off. They were her armor against the world, and with her bandana over her nose she decided she could go for a walk, see how cold she couldn’t be. She didn’t even care if her father found out now, the bottle had suddenly become a quarter empty anyway, so she grabbed her hat from the front entryway chair, pulled her boots on, and stepped outside into the November night.
It was midnight, maybe. And cold. So, so cold. But she had liquid fire, and maybe she didn’t care so much about being cold. Maybe she deserved to be. She stole her father’s gin, snooped for it even. She didn’t deserve to be warm right now, and its not like she even knew if she was or not. Stumbling through the single foot of snow outside, she wandered mindlessly as more snow fell all around her. Where was she going? She didn’t know. But her feet did, and they took her through town towards the little train station that her father had forbade her to ever go to alone. Especially at night. He said bad people lurked there, but who cared! She could be bad. She would be bad. She’d be the lurker who parents said to avoid. Or maybe she’d be too quiet and end up a shadow instead. She tended to do that—shadow people, shadow corners of rooms. Her father once told her three years ago that she’d be a better shadow than a child, and she took it to heart. She would be a good little shadow, wouldn’t she?
Was she saying things out loud? She couldn’t tell. Her mouth was moving, and sound was coming out, but it sounded more like an old lullaby her mother sang to her years ago. Dear old mom. Where could she have gone?
Mom was waiting at the train station, wasn’t she? She wants to take Spinner to her hometown for Christmas, even though it’s still the middle of November. Maybe her great aunt missed them too much this year. Spinner didn’t mind. Her great aunt Penny gets lonely now that her husband is six feet under, and the cold makes her bones ache more. The train station was just in front of Spinner now, and she was so excited that she closed the distance with a clumsy run.
The platform was empty. Devoid of life, muted by snow. A large overhang kept snow away from the main area, and Spinners boots thumped a little on the ground. Was it concrete? Was it wood? Was it something else? She had no idea.
But where was mom? Her eyes were squinted, and her mind was very foggy now, but she could’ve sworn that she was supposed to meet her mom here to go see great aunt Penny. She did that six years ago when she was eight, and—
Oh. That’s right. Mom can’t meet her here, because mom is gone.
How could she forget something so significant? How could she?
How could you forget your own mom is dead? Foolish girl! Foolish! How could you?! You walked all the way here to see her and she’s dead! She’d not here! She never will be because she’s not coming back for you! She never will, you’re foolish if you think you’re worth it! You’re not worth it, you little bastard!
Thoughts loaded with insults flooded Spinner’s mind, and she plopped herself onto a bench on the platform to cry about it. She felt so stupid and little for crying about it, but she’d spent the last four years watching her father mourn his wife, but for the last four years, that wife didn’t have a daughter mourning her. Instead, that little girl was stuck watching her father fall apart, watching him drink himself to death, watching him get meaner and sadder as she grew to look nothing like that wife. She looked like her father, with her tinted skin and dark blonde hair, and her eyes. Those damn eyes! They looked like deep voids set into her small face, dark and shimmering constantly with tears she wasn’t allowed to let out because she wasn’t supposed to be a little girl, she was supposed to be a little boy, and boys don’t cry, dammit! That’s what dad would say, right? If he didn’t care about her little girl feelings, he’d say he didn’t want a little girl, right?