One More Wounded Heart
Ali was beginning to suspect that she was losing something with every broken heart. She couldn't quite name it, but the more rum she drank the more she began to realize how things had changed. She tried, for a good five minutes after her second drink was delivered, to convince herself that it was just the rum talking; that she hadn't been slowly losing some vital and irreplaceable part of herself with each wound to her spirit. But, no. She'd begun suspecting as much before she started thinking about going out for a drink (or seven). She then spent the duration of her third drink curled up in the back of her booth, trying very hard to not think at all. Not even the usual diversions of the Nexus could distract her this time.
Then she tried to blame it on Jareth. He was, after all, no stranger to breaking hearts; maybe it had been his goal all along to get from her...whatever it was that was gone. She couldn't support that idea for long either. Somewhere near the end of her fourth drink she began to realize it wasn't something being stolen; it was something she was giving away.
But could she stop? Did she dare attempt to preserve one part of herself at the expense of another?
The rum had no answers. She'd have to settle for temporary oblivion.
Then she tried to blame it on Jareth. He was, after all, no stranger to breaking hearts; maybe it had been his goal all along to get from her...whatever it was that was gone. She couldn't support that idea for long either. Somewhere near the end of her fourth drink she began to realize it wasn't something being stolen; it was something she was giving away.
But could she stop? Did she dare attempt to preserve one part of herself at the expense of another?
The rum had no answers. She'd have to settle for temporary oblivion.