One More Notch

There was a sound of engine running at its full, and the landscapes and pictures passing by in a blur. She sat in the backseat, her head leaned on the cold surface of the car window, not really wanting to say anything, or even be in the position she was at the moment.

“It’s for your own good, honey. Imagine if we had to intervene, it would only make things worse. Think of this as a vacation. Sun, beach…”

“And rehab,” she finished the sentence coming from the man driving the expensive black car.

“It’s for your own good,” a woman on the passenger seat repeated. Their words seemed more like trying to convince everyone but them. “Ros, you know that.”

Rosalind, or Ros how she preferred being called instead of her full name, just rolled her eyes and slumped in the plush seat further. Now, to the person looking outside, it looked like parents are trying to convince their five year old that going to summer camp would be a blast. But Rosalind wasn't five, and her parents weren’t taking her to camp of Sunshine and Rainbows. Instead, they were taking their twenty-two year old daughter to a rehabilitation facility for people who had their ways, or problems, with excessive partying and alcohol and drugs. All the circus that was usual for New York party scenery.

And Rosalind loved her party life. She lived for the night out, dressed to the nines, black dress with tiny glittery purse and high heel stilettos, drinking cocktails and fucking random boys. She might have been watching too much of Sex and the City, but some things were true. In New York, you could find fun and sex at every corner.

The couple at front engaged in their own conversation of how they are going to explain all what has happened to their friends and work associates.

Excluding herself from the outside world, tucked in the lulling shaking of the car and her own thoughts, Rosalind fell asleep.

By the time she woke up, the car wasn’t moving and her parents were waiting for her to grace them with her presence, their little princes as they called her, and do the procedure that was obligatory.

“Can I at least have a cup of coffee?” she begged, trying to delay the moment she had to walk to the red pained building. Her mother sighed, ready to cave in to her daughter’s request, but the stern voice of her father held more determination that ever, enough for all of them.

“No Rosalind. And don’t try to escape this,” he hugged the five foot something girl and watched her as she took uncertain steps towards the more than welcoming nurse at the front door.

“Hi, my name is Rosalind Murphy. I’m here because I need help,” she said. The nurse smiled and took her hand, “Come here darling, we are going to take good care of you.”

And with that, the door closed, leaving mister and misses Murphy standing near their car and in each other’s arms.



“Fuck this shit man. It’s boring,” the man spoke, evidently drunk, but for what it seemed, it was more of his natural state. “We need excitement. Something new,” his eyes traveled up onto the gorgeous blonde walking by, “Hello there.” His legs followed and soon he was draping his arms over the girl’s shoulders and engaging the casual, almost forced conversation. It seemed like the girl was actually a college student, one of those that liked to talk, but had no one to do it with.

And so she talked, and talked. The man was nodding his head at her words, not listening at all.

“Excuse me, I have to…” he said pointing to nowhere in particular, but he did it in a way to seem like he was pointing to someone in particular. He stood up and walked away from the girl, and walked over to the bar.

“Tyson hey,” the bartender said, a little too enthusiastically for his liking. Tyson nodded and smiled (forcefully though). “The usual?”

Soon there were seven glasses, empty glasses, previously occupied with margaritas, in front of him.

“Man, I should never leave L.A.,” Tyson said playing with the remaining of the salt on the glass, “It’s so boring here.”

The bartender looked at the blue eyed man in front of him, seventy percent drunk, hundred and twelve percent lonely.

“I think you had one too many drinks Tyson.”

“I had seven drinks too much,” Tyson responded and reached for his wallet. Fumbling with his fingers, he took out a bill, not really looking at the denomination of it and slammed it onto the bar counter.

“Okay Tyson. Left leg, right leg. You’re doing fine,” he said to himself. He knew he was drunk and barely walking, but in his state of mind, he could care less. His vision might be blurry, but he was focused on his walking and finally getting home.

Somehow the four blocks of his usual route from his house to the bar appeared to be longer that night.