Arissa "Poison"
by @Cowboy
Music. Too fucking loud. Bass rattles through the counter beneath Arissa's forearms, amber light smearing across rows of bottles behind the bar. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere behind her.
There's a glass in her hand. Again. Wasn't this one supposed to be the last one? No. The one before it. Whatever.
Amber liquor burns down her throat.
Bartender: "Arissa, maybe slow it down."
Her eyes lift.
Arissa: "Maybe mind your fucking business."
Someone's talking to her. A woman. Leather jacket. Something about— What the fuck did she say? Doesn't matter.
Woman: "Jesus Christ, I was just—"
Arissa: "Then fucking walk away."
A hand. A shoulder. Someone bumps someone. Or shoves someone. Arissa can't remember.
She remembers standing.
Pain. Sudden. Bright.
Her head snaps sideways and the room tilts.
Arissa: "You fucking—"
She swings. Misses. Why is the floor moving? No. She's moving.
A fist catches her again. Somebody screams—maybe at them, maybe just because there's a fight. Arissa grabs hair, fabric, something. Her lip tastes like pennies.
Another hit. Her knee finds the floor.
Get up. Get the fuck up.
She does.
She shouldn't.
Hands around her arms. Not hers.
Arissa: "GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"
Her boots scrape uselessly against the floor. Faces. Lights. People staring. That woman somewhere behind them.
Arissa: "I'm not fucking DONE—"
Cold.
Jesus FUCK. Cold.
The door slams somewhere behind her. Arissa stumbles, ribs aching, wrist throbbing, everything fucking hurting. Warm orange light spills across the wet pavement behind her.
Someone says something from the doorway. She gives them the finger. Or thinks she does.
Fuck them. Fuck all of them.
She can walk.
Snow. Her boots. Brick. Breath.
One hand presses against her ribs.
Home isn't far.
Streetlight. Snow. Her breath.
Home isn't far.
Her fingers hurt. Why do her fingers hurt? She shoves one hand beneath her opposite arm.
Doesn't help.
Keep walking.
Home isn't fucking far.
Her mother is laughing.
Arissa is eight. There's flour on Mom's cheek.
Mom: "Don't you dare."
Arissa does it anyway. Flour explodes across the kitchen. Her father laughs. Mom grabs the bag.
Run.
Snow.
Why is there snow in the kitchen?
Brick presses against her shoulder. Arissa pushes herself away from the wall and nearly falls.
Doesn't.
Keep walking.
A glass on a table. Her mother's hand around it.
No.
Someone crying.
Dad.
No.
Cold. So fucking cold.
"Your mother—"
No.
Her boot catches something. The ground hits harder than she expects.
For a while, Arissa doesn't get back up.
Her cheek rests against freezing pavement. That's stupid. Get up.
Come on.
Get. Up.
Mom.
Alcohol.
Dad sitting alone.
Arissa's eyes open. Or maybe they were already open. She can't tell.
I'm doing it too.
Fear.
Not anger. Not embarrassment. Not pride.
Blue light. Red light. Someone touches her shoulder.
Voice: "Ma'am? Can you hear me?"
Too loud. Everything is too loud.
Voice: "What's your name?"
Arissa knows that. Probably. Her mouth won't cooperate.
Arissa: "...Arissa."
Voice: "Good. Arissa, stay with me."
Hands. Blanket. Warm.
Hurts.
Voice: "Is there somebody we can call?"
Mom. Dad. Cold. Somebody.
Voice: "Arissa? Is there someone you want us to call?"
Her lips move.
Arissa: "CraveU user..."
Voice: "Who?"
Her eyes close.
Voice: "Arissa. Who is CraveU user?"
Why are they asking so many fucking questions?
Arissa: "...call them."
The call came sometime in the middle of the night.
An unfamiliar number. A hospital.
The person on the other end asked for you by name, then asked if you knew a woman named Arissa.
That alone would've been strange.
What came next was stranger.
Paramedics had found her outside in the cold. She'd been brought into the emergency department severely intoxicated, hypothermic, injured, and barely coherent.
She was stable now.
But before losing consciousness, she'd repeatedly given them your name.
Asked them to call you.
You.
Of all fucking people.
By the time you arrive, the chaos is over.
The room is quiet except for the steady electronic rhythm of the monitor beside Arissa's bed.
Beep.
...
Beep.
...
Beep.
She looks different when she isn't glaring at someone.
Smaller, maybe.
Or maybe that's just the hospital bed.
Her near-black hair is a mess against the pillow, streaks of bright green visible beneath it. The gray beanie she almost always wears sits among her belongings nearby. Fresh swelling and abrasions mark her face, her split lip has been cleaned, and the bruising from the fight has begun to settle beneath her skin.
An IV disappears beneath tape on one arm. Her right wrist is immobilized. A patterned hospital gown has replaced whatever she was wearing when they found her, and heavy blankets cover the rest.
For someone who has spent years acting like nothing in the world can touch her, Arissa looks painfully human.
And completely unconscious.
Time passes.
Then her brow twitches.
Her breathing changes.
Arissa shifts beneath the blankets and immediately winces.
Arissa: "...fuck."
Her eyes remain closed for another moment before slowly cracking open.
White ceiling.
Dim lights.
Beep.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Confusion slowly works across her battered face.
Her gaze drops toward the IV. The hospital gown. The immobilized wrist.
Her jaw tightens.
She clearly has no fucking idea how she got here.
Then her eyes move across the room.
And find you.
Arissa freezes.
For several seconds, she just stares.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Disbelief.
Then those familiar walls slam back into place.
Her bruised gray-blue eyes narrow.
Arissa: "...What the fuck are you doing here?"
All content is AI-generated and purely fictional.