Young Writers Society

Mariel sat slumped against the bar, on her usual stool at the far end of the room, and, Glory noted with distaste, she had taken her boots off and had her feet up on the seat beside hers. Mariel had never been one to let her hair down, so seeing her like this with stocking feet on a dirty barstool, hair half in, half out of a lopsided ponytail, wearing just a white camisole and jeans, came as quite a shock. It just went against everything she’d ever said and done before. It was so unlike her to be sitting here at 2am, fishing around for the lighter in her pocket, her boots shoved haphazardly under her seat. A glass stood half empty in front of her, and Glory wondered how many she’d had. Too many, judging by the look on her face; the barkeep shook his head when she signaled for another. Glory carefully pushed her feet from the stool and sat down. She didn’t look over at him, but offered him a cigarette as a way of acknowledging his presence. Glory shook his head, and instead leaned over and took her drink.

“D’you mind?” she asked around the cigarette she held between her lips. She looked over now, but not at him; she gave her glass a pointed stare.

Glory downed the rest of the glass as a way of answering. “What I mind,” he began after a moment, “is having to come here at two in the morning to pick you up. It’s Thursday morning, Mariel. This is disgusting.”

In her drunken state, Mariel couldn’t tell if he was referring to the situation, which was a new low, or the booze, which was cheap for a reason. Realizing he was waiting for a reply, she made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and busied herself by fumbling with her box of cigarettes which was promptly snatched out of her hands by an irate Glory. “D’you mind?” she asked again, still not looking up at him.

“This is disgusting,” he repeated.

“So you’ve said,” she muttered, looking at the barkeep, her hands, the muted TV in the corner, her empty glass, the floor, her boots, the hem of her shirt, anything but Glory. He was right, of course; this was disgusting and the very fact that he was right embarrassed her, which made her angry, and in her anger she lashed out and acted mutinous.

Glory either didn’t hear or chose to ignore this comment. “Get your shoes on,” he said, “we’re going home.”

To his surprise, she did as she was told and put her boots on, although the laces took her several tries. She still wouldn’t look in his direction.

“Up,” he ordered, pulling her to her feet. She stumbled, giddy and unfocused. He pushed her along in front of him; it seemed to take an eternity to make it to the door. Glory held his breath; the reek of cigarette smoke was making him nauseous.

He’d barely begun to breathe again when he started berating her. “This has got to stop, Mariel,” he insisted. His voice was one part anger, one part worry, and one part sheer exhaustion.

“You aren’t my mother,” Mariel muttered under her breath. She stumbled, and for less than a second, Glory considered letting her fall. He caught her at the last moment.

“I may as well be,” he snapped, his voice getting steadily louder. For the first time that night, he sounded truly angry. “I may as well be and you know it. You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

Mariel said nothing. It was true, of course; he had raised her, and it hadn’t ever bothered her before. She’d been too young when her parents died to remember them properly, and she’d just never given it much thought. Now that they were older and the difference in their ages didn’t seem as great, and she was drunk on cheap liquor, she decided she did have a problem with it.

“Who’re you to replace my parents?” she demanded, “who put you in charge of my life?”

Caught off guard, Glory stumbled back a few steps when she shoved him violently away.

Anger coursed through Mariel's veins, mixed with her blood and alcohol and adrenaline. She could hear it pounding in her ears, feel it pumping through her heart.

“Your parents did, Mariel,” Glory said, fighting to remain calm. He wanted to hit her, to hug her. He didn’t know her anymore. He didn’t know anything anymore. “They left me to take care of you and you know that,” his voice cracked, “you know that.”

Mariel scoffed. She was too drunk and too angry to care that he was right; she was too drunk and too angry to care about anything at all. Glory turned his back on her and walked away. “Don’t see why they trusted you,” she screamed after him, “fag like you probably shouldn’t have kids for a reason!” Sober, Mariel would never have even dreamed of speaking to him like this. What he did in private was none of her concern, and moreover, no matter how much they fought, he was all she had for a family.

Although she would never have admitted it to anyone, she cared for him and feared losing him more than anything else in the world. Although she was doing a pretty good job of making her worst nightmares come true.

Glory turned to face her. His voice was cold as ice and sharp as razorblades. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, Mariel,” he turned on his heel, his back to her again. “Find your own way home.”

“Fine,” she hollered, “fine, I don’t need you, you fucking faggot son of a bitch!” Mariel threw her apartment keys with surprising accuracy considering her blood alcohol level, hitting him square in the back. She was screaming by this point. Screaming so loud her throat hurt. Damn the noise ordinance, damn the people wondering what was happening down on the sidewalk, damn the cars driving by, damn Glory, damn everything.

Glory disappeared around the corner, his head held high. He was too hurt and too angry to care that he’d just left Mariel, drunk and alone, on a rainy city street at two thirty in the morning.

Mariel watched him go. The tears that stung her eyes turned the street lights into rainbows. When she could no longer see him, she wiped the tears away and sat down heavily on the curb. Silently, she pulled the rubber band from her hair and shook her head. She threw pebbles into the street; anything to use up some of the nervous energy pent up within her. She’d bottled everything up inside for so long that she was overflowing and about to explode.

*

She lost track of how long she sat there, but in time she ran out of energy, and things to throw; the rain was starting to get to her. She was cold and damp and lonely. She managed to stand up and make her way shakily down the street. Mariel knew the way home, assuming she could still call it home, assuming Glory would let her in again.

She decided it was best not to think about it; best not to think about anything at all.

After all that she’d drank, it was difficult to walk, and although the apartment wasn’t far, it was slow going. Her headache coupled with her rising nausea meant she had to stop frequently to close her eyes and catch her breath. She wondered vaguely if she’d make it home before dawn; Glory would be worried if she didn’t return soon.

Glory.

The memory of what had happened twisted like a knife in her side; the cruelty of what she had said crashed down on her like a tidal wave. What if he never forgave her? I’d deserve it, Mariel thought to herself as she got to her feet again, I wouldn’t forgive me. She found she was staggering less, and although the world had stopped spinning, her head continued to ache, and it was getting steadily worse. Shuffling along the sidewalk as the early morning commuters began to slink out of their apartments and make their way to work, she could feel their eyes on her. She knew what she looked like: a miserable drunk with no job and no future; what made it sting was that it was true, and so Mariel made a conscious effort not to make eye-contact with any of them. Instead, she concentrated on the sidewalk, being careful not to step on the cracks in the cement. This made her gait awkward and unnatural, giving her the appearance of being far more drunk than she actually was.

She had never cared much about stranger’s opinions, but she had always cared about Glory’s, and he was right: this was disgusting.

The salt in the wound was that there was nobody to blame this time. There was no way to twist this into being someone else’s fault and the blame was squarely on her. It weighed heavily on Mariel’s shoulders as she made her way back towards Glory’s apartment. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, Mariel cried freely.

There was nobody in the lobby to let her into the building when she arrived. The sky above the city was beginning to lighten, although her mood was not improving with the weather. She pressed the intercom button for the apartment she shared with Glory - or, the apartment she had shared with Glory.

It took him several minutes to answer. She’d probably woken him up. “Mariel?”

She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I’ll buzz you in,” he said, and Mariel wilted with relief.

ending one: She went inside as soon as the door unlocked. Dreading being seen in this state, she made her way up seven flights of stairs to apartment 703. Glory was standing in the doorway waiting for her. “We need to talk.”

ending two: She went inside as soon as the door unlocked. Dreading being seen in this state, she made her way up seven flights of stairs to apartment 703. Glory was standing in the doorway waiting for her.

“I’m glad you made it home,” he said, moving to the side to let her in. “I started to worry when it started to rain. I‘m sorry --”

Mariel held a shaking hand up to stop him. “No,” she said, her voice shaky but clear, “I’m the one who owes you an apology.” Glory said nothing, watching her silently, and so she continued, “I was angry and I was drunk,” she pressed on, “and I know it’s not an excuse, but...”

“It isn’t,” Glory agreed, pushing her firmly into a kitchen chair. “I almost didn’t let you in,” he continued, placing a glass of water down in front of her, “but I think we have some talking to do.”

“Yeah,” Mariel managed, “yeah, we do.”

---

So, okay, yeah. I think I should add a disclaimer: no, I'm not a homophobe, thank you for asking; actually, neither is Mariel. alcohol is bad for you. cussing out your best friend in the whole world is generally a bad idea.

(& yes, his name is Glory.)