Drip, Drip, Drop


By Ellen Grace

When we took away her bottles, we weren’t sure that we would ever see her again. She ran out the door and screamed that she was being tortured, that someone should call the police.

When no one came, she blamed that on us too.

I wonder what she’s doing now, in that empty house full of possessions. She’s probably on the floor, in the cellar, with the one bottle we couldn’t find. The one she kept hidden in the wall. She’s probably pouring the last drop on her tongue and wishing there was more. She always did have a problem.


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