The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Drunk

A.N.: Doing toggle pov and it's back to each pov picking up where the previous one left off.
Disclaimer!: Not promoting underage drinking!! This is just the way I imagine things to go down based on the book and my imagination. Don't drink if you are underage!!!!!!
Avery pov

I still can't find her. Remembering the tracking feature on the app I enter "Trinity Hawthorne" into it. She's in the garage.

I walk-run as fast as I can and see her wearing a shiny red leather coat and dismounting from a bike.

"Trinity..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"He's drunk. For you."
Trinity pov

Like that meant anything... "He's always drunk!" I shot back, with a little too much edge in my voice.

Avery recoils as if she's been slapped.

I continue, relentlessly "And you have lived under this roof for what-three days? You don't know anything!"

"Well, I know one thing. This house, this family-is broken. Tobias Hawthorne-"

"Don't say his name."

"-did it." Avery finished.

Avery pov 

Trinity lets out a long, shaky breath "Money is the reason we exist." she exhaled, like she had been holding her breath, "Everyone knows this."

It was worded like a fact - and I didn't respond, sensing it was best to keep silent.
"God, I didn't mean to lash out like that." Trinity stared into space, not exactly talking to me. "It's been a lot."

I assumed she was talking about her brothers. "We used to all be so much closer... but, Emily, then granddad". Then she seemed to focus again, but that also meant she had closed up.

"I have to go." I nodded in understanding, "Make sure no one kills themselves."

I nod.

Underneath her cover up, then all her angst, all of her pain, I could sense she cared. She didn't want anyone to have to feel the way she did (does?). Uncared for.
Trinity pov

Jameson was fücked up. Well, he always was, but he looked really bad. Smelling like a-number-with-more -than-one-digit different types of alcohol, wearing clothes-but barely, camping in the alcohol cellar. Meet Drunk Jameson Hawthorne.

Fück, how long was I away? Jesus Christ, he looks really fücking bad. Worse than I've seen him.

"Hey, pretty lady." his voice slurs.

"Jamie," I say, opting for a nickname in order to match his headspace, "Don't be stupid. I suggest you go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow."

He laughs. It's his "drunk laugh", rough and hoarse, his throat dry from the alcohol.

"God damn you, little piece of sh!t." I mutter under my breath. Out loud I say, "Is this reckless enough for you?" while grabbing a large bottle of vodka and pouring it down my throat. "Huh?"

Jameson looks at me, dumbfounded, "...Damn, you really did that." This time, when he trips over his words, it's not so far to the ground.

"Excellent sense of observation." I deadpan. Like Grayson, I do most of my drinking in private-tiny bottles of vodka and whiskey hidden around my room. And only when I'm really desperate. My coping skills mainly consist of: a) blowing something up, b) buying way too much sh!t, c) wallowing in self pity (with my 'crying' playlist)-then blowing up something or, d) blowing something up.

Jameson ambles over to the tufted leather sofa I'm sitting on and joins me. He reeks of alcohol.

"I'm sorry, li'l sis." he mumbles.
Not quite an apology, but for now I'll take it. "I'm sorry too." I reply, while taking a swig of vodka.

I tip the bottle towards him.

He accepts the peace offering.
A.N.: Soo, the toggles were much shorter this time, but whatever.
Again: DON'T DRINK IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE!
What did you guys think?
<3!