I sit on the kitchen floor, bottle in hand. This bottle will take me away, out of this world, to somewhere better. A place where the bad is distorted and the good is enhanced. The bottle feels so heavy. Full of liquid, a liquid that keeps me from going crazy. Sometimes it burns a little bit going down, but once it's in, I'm fine and I don't notice anymore. The kitchen floor feels so hard, so cold, just like society. I pop out the cork and take a gulp. The red liquid gushes down my throat. So good, so deep, the satisfying redness that vampires must feel. I close my eyes for just a moment and feel the rest I need. The late nights with friends, the pressure I face daily to be a good person, the schoolwork I have to do all add up to equal zero hours of sleep. I open my eyes. I stare at the bottle in my hand. Fancy imported wine, meant to be delicately sipped at formal gatherings. Here I am, sitting in my pajamas on the floor, chugging it down. I'm such a slob. No wonder I can't find a boyfriend. Because I'm shy and can't talk to anyone except my friends. Because I oversleep every morning and don't have time to make myself look good. Because nobody wants to be with someone who's drunk all the time.
    How does anyone do it? Survive in this world, I mean. Without any help. I see these independent people everywhere, sashaying down the hallways at school. The fashionable student council president, the straight-A marching band leader, the center forward of the varsity basketball team. How do they do it? I bet they were raised in good families, with good values and perfect lawns. Not like me. My mom comes home smelling like onion rings in her Burger King uniform, my dad in his construction helmet. As a kid, I would blast my Britney Spears CDs to drown out the sound of them fighting and my mom hitting the floor as my dad pushed her. Then he would come after me. He'd barge into my room, slap me, tell me to turn off this "crap music", and rip my CD player out of the wall. He'd tell me not to be a baby when I started crying. This is how life is, he told me. You try to be good, but then you get hit in the face. You've got to suck it up and pretend like it doesn't hurt. He would rant a little more about how I was just like my mother, and then leave. I would cry into my pillow until I fell asleep. Then I would wake up, hide it, and put a smile on my battered face. I wore long sleeves to hide the bruises so the teacher wouldn't see anything.
    This substance, this alcohol, makes me forget. My brain relaxes. The knots in my shoulders, from the knots in my hair and the knots in my shoelaces. Sure, some people do yoga, jogging, knitting. I don't have the patience or physical ability for any of that. I was never good at anything. I got pummeled by the boys in gym class and it broke my glasses. I could never have more than a 3.0 G.P.A. Just average, maybe less. My parents wanted me to be more. Most colleges wanted more. Boys wanted more. But I was never enough. This wine makes me feel like I'm enough. More than enough. Happy, intelligent, maybe a little loose. Like a girl who had a perfect home life. Like a girl who had a sweet sixteen party and a convertible. Like a girl who's father isn't in jail, who's mom isn't in therapy. Drink. Swallow. Relax. But maybe...I just need to cry a little more.
    Tears fill my eyes, and fall inside the long neck of the bottle. A hint of salt is now in my wine. I curse and throw the bottle at the window. The glass shatters and red liquid floods the floor. No! How will I survive now? I start to sob. I threw it away, just like I threw my life away. I could be so much better. I could have been that A student, that sweet little cheerleader, that cool artsy girl. But no. I'm just white trash, just like my parents. Thank God they didn't have another kid. They won't have two screw-ups to deal with.
    I get some paper towels and some cleaner. I don't want to leave a big stain on the floor. Just like my dad left a big stain on my life. I start cleaning up the spill. I'm almost done when my best friend Alexandra walks in. She knows what I'm doing. She knows why I'm doing it. She understands my past, why I am the way I am. She walks over to me, careful not to slip on the spill. She wraps me in a hug as my tears and absorbed on her shirt. She lets go and looks right at me. She begins to speak.
    "You don't need to do this," she says. "You're so much better. I understand about your past, I really do. But you're so much more than either of your parents ever could be. Your father is in jail now, and he's gone. You have real depth in you. You could be something wonderful, something beautiful and creative. But please, don't do this. This will ruin your future, your whole life. Please. Don't do this."
    Her words are like a cold splash of water on my face. Sobering, wiping away the haze of makeup and self-hatred. There is beauty within me. It was just hidden by my ugly past. I was too afraid to express myself. I was scared of being hit, of being yelled at. More tears gush out of my eyes.
    "You're right," I whisper. She knows I want to say a lot more, but I can't quite say it yet. She understands. She helps me clean up the rest of the mess, and she helps me move along to her house and to the rest of my life.