It had been a month, or perhaps two. Those days in between of his death and now were hazey, filled with blinding rage and mindless drinking. Those days she had spent on a rampage she wanted to forget, and spent those following days hunting down the most secluded villages, having become a wanted person, and spent those days in bars, drinking until she couldn't stand, or think, or remember. She drank until she couldn't anymore - hadn't the coordination to lift the bottle to her lips anymore. More than once she woke up in strange beds, on streets, and she wasn't too proud of herself.
But even now, fallen from grace, her short, stark white hair was stringy and dirty - how long had it been since her last bath? She felt diseased, dirty - she wondered how she even found the money to buy drinks. Most of the time she lacked memory of those moments where she walked in and ordered the drinks. There was no clarity, it was muddled, a confused and blurry mess. Had she actually thought enough to take money from their treasurey? Or was this stolen money? Or were people giving her drinks out of charity? The latter sounded highly unlikely, however.
She was slumped in a chair in the darkest, dirtiest corner there was, a mug sitting in front, cold with froth sliding down its sides. Her poison - her drug of choice. She had drank so much, it was a wonder she wasn't dead. Maybe that was due to the fact she wasn't human, simply looked it. Maybe that was why she drank and drank and nothing happened... Or, perhaps it was a cruel irony. Who knew?
Jorie pushed herself from the table, accidentally sweeping her mug off the table, crashing and spilling, shattering into thousands of pieces. It barely registered - well, it did. She wasn't entirely so drunk that she had lost her competence, it was just so hard to focus. She was running on auto-pilot, and thought was in the passenger seat.
The bar was decently filled, dully lit, and scummy. It was run-down, there only because its beer was cheap - it was a place for the disgusting and felons... for the lowest of the low who wanted to drink and had only little money. And there she was - a trampled rose among weeds.
Jorie stumbled across the bar room, tripping over chairs, tables, and people, knocking drinks, curses thrown. She was pushed and shoved, while people looked her up and down. She didn't feel very good, however. While she was trying for the door, pushing her way through, she felt a hand slide around her, a putrid stench engulfing her.
"Come out back, I want to show you something..." It was amazing how she found someone whose smell was worse then her own - and how he clung to her, groping what wasn't his to touch. Her stomach, however, was at the foreground of her mind.
She heaved, feebly pushing at him, but wound up clutching him while she threw up all over his front. He shouted and cursed (like he could get any dirtier). He smacked her roughly, sending her to the ground, before he picked her up, dragging her outside.
What was going through her mind? It wasn't that she wanted help, it was just how... utterly pathetic and useless she had become. She had become so easy when at one point in her life she had been known as the Ice Queen, a bitter, cynical bitch who stomped on people who annoyed her to the bitter-end.
Heaving again, Jorie threw up on the ground, and although the man had probably wanted to do something more, he decided against it, throwing her into her vomit, kicking her once before storming back into the bar. She coughed and heaved more, rolling over, away from the putrid scent. She stared, blankly, at the sky, lying in the street. Maybe she'd get up?
