It’s the dead of night. Wind howls its eerie song, thunder pierces the sky, and rain drops tap dance upon the roof. What once was a bright, roaring fire is nothing more than a few red coals. What’s left dimly lights the colonial style living room. A crystal glass lies on its side on the table; whiskey dribbles onto the hardwood floor, glistening ever so slightly from the fireplace. Mascara stained tears slowly roll over her cheeks–her gaze is focused on what lies within her mind. A heavy pit sits in her stomach as a picture frame lies on her lap, the glass shattered and bloody. The rain finally stops, and her empty gaze shifts back to the present situation. Her face is heavy with exhaustion. She gives a brief, uninterested glance at the mixture of blood, glass, and whiskey. A disheartened sigh escapes her mouth. The grandfather clock chimes twice, and silence follows.