March 12, 2011. 12:37 AM. While completely sober, Cristina heads downstairs for a cup of Kool-Aid, which she brings to her room and promptly spills all over her bed. At this point, she isn’t even surprised at her clumsiness; in fact, she simply sighs dejectedly and trudges off in search of replacement sheets.
But what’s this? The self-deprecating acceptance of her clumsiness gives way to a new, somewhat unwelcome emotion when she realizes that, in a cruel twist which adds insult to injury, there is not enough left in the cup for her to take her evening medication. More must be procured, perhaps in a child’s sippy cup, or a sealed water bottle.
She heads back downstairs, annoyed and exhausted. Places the cup on the counter - so. Lifts the pitcher. Thinks twice, and lifts the cup. Determined not to make another mess, she slowly retreats back to her room, where, steadying the red plastic vessel with both hands, she drinks deeply without incident. Relieved, she places the cup on the desk opposite of her bed in order to minimize any more accidental toppling.
She crawls into bed and lets her hair out of its elastic band. As her jet-black curls tumble loose, she tosses the elastic aimlessly across the room, only to hear the faint click of elastic on plastic, and the sound of the cup tipping over, spilling its meager remains across the desktop.
The room is silent, save for her frustrated sighs. A moment passes, before we hear her turn over and go to sleep, mumbling only one audible phrase:
“Fuck. That. Shit.”
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