Glittering

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the first vodka bottle bone dry; a half-empty bottle of more expensive vodka lies in my lap along with an empty can of beer and a brown-coloured miniature I found in the back of the alcohol cabinet. My eyes sting from earlier tears, yet, in my reflection look uncharacteristically steely and absent. I breathe in the cool air which whistles as it gushes through my window, and dances with the tobacco fumes of my usually crisp bed linen. My body has been on auto-pilot for several hours; mind bemused at my new behaviours but unwilling to amend them. I breathe in the heady smoke from another cigarette I stole from my mother's study when I was about twelve; and remember the awe in Isobel's face as I produced the untouched packet to her pre-pubescent self. 
     "That's so cool," she had said in delight, "you're my best friend."
A pang of remorse flicks at my puce heart, but is soon dispelled by my alcohol-induced nonchalance. I lay, unmoving for hours and watch the summer sky transform into an indigo coloured blanket laiden with glittering stars.