It wasn’t often that
she took to the bottle – hardly in fact – but the days that she chose to
become, well, inebriated enough to stop thinking, she was either possessed by a
devil-may-care disposition or was too melancholy to bother with anything or
anyone else.
It was strange. She
usually hated the aggravating effect that alcohol had on her existing frame of
mind. However, like most things, she’d come to realise that the intoxicant,
used in lesser, precise measures,
could be a tool. Whether it’d be to put her nerves at ease in a situation too
social for her liking, or to take the seething edge off her ruminations, the
luxury of which she would allow herself only within the confines of her room
with the unspoken assurance of being left to her devices for hours to come.
(Her father’s
nonchalance at her liberty to make a drink for herself at will did come in
handy at times, after all.)
Nonetheless, reverting
to the occasion that warranted the use of such recreation in the first place. Well, not so much an
occasion than a series of realisations acquired over time – most notably, over
the past two years – which led her to worriedly introspect, confront herself
even, all this while that she was home with time to spare finally.
Realisations of her
not so subtle sense of disdain for people not as clever or bright as they
should be (whether the need to be about one’s wits was a trait self-acquired or
drilled into her through her upbringing was a question she was yet unable to
answer). Realisations of her misplaced arrogance with respect to her
understanding of the world, her character traits which in her opinion placed
her on a higher pedestal than most others. Realisations of her deep-rooted
distrust derived either from such aforementioned contempt or fear of being
trivialised that kept most at bay, while she was rendered bitterly complaining
about the disappointment arising from people tripping over her own deliberately
laid traps and obstacles in order to reach her.
All of which served to
instil some form of misanthropy in her mannerisms, to say nothing of her
thoughts.
It was indeed strange.
She retreated further and further into the fortress of her mind, deluding
herself with the prospect of being entertained only by those worthy and capable
enough of recognising her defence mechanisms, even as she remembered the grim
reality that no sane person would be willingly subject to an acid test over and
over. Her concern, that the first, preliminary layer of filtration shouldn’t
suffice to keep her safe from being betrayed later, served as little consolation.
But the arrogance, the
flimsy assurance of having something of your own to claim…it is what kept her
from bowing down and meeting the objects of her misanthropy halfway.
Easier to
keep your head high and march forward, in the everlasting hope that you stand
to gain better than what you left behind, isn’t it?
Even if it meant going back to a book and a glass of wine, people be damned.
