A/N – You'd be amazed at how much a girl can write when she's putting off college work.

Please don't kill me.

I'mtryingtogetbackintowritingasmyNBCmusewastemporarilylost(DAMNYOUSATNAV)andreplacedbyBleach,myownstupidnovelanddullthoughtsregardingmyfuture – sigh.

StarGazeEyes: Jack do you want to –

Jack: BOO!

StarGazeEyes: o_O what are you doing?

Jack: Being my own bony self again

StarGazeEyes: Awww. Do the disclaimer.

Jack: But I'm the Pum-

StarGazeEyes: Don't care

Jack: Listen everyone. StarGazeEyes owns nothing, she is poor and needy and stup-

StarGazeEyes: They get it. You're supposed to be nice :(

Jack:It'smydayoff,anywayhere'sChapterTwo.

Chapter Two: Drunk as a Skunk

To say she was upset was a gross understatement to say the least.

Fifteen years ago on that very day, he had kicked the proverbial bucket and the bastard still had the balls to cling to her thoughts like the fungus infected plague he was.

She had to marry an arsehole.

His self righteous smirk wreaking havoc on her 'delicate sensibilities'; appearing and disappearing repeatedly in her nightmares. Waking in a cold sweat among the satin sheets, she'd shudder and crave the coarse feel of his skin on hers. Now her son had popped his clogs too.

She had shit luck.

Tinkling glass and an expanding red stain on her loosely wrapped dressing gown proved that her trembling hands had smashed her glass of Merlot – again. Beads of the crimson liquid ran down chipped fingernails and tiny shards of glass were embedded into her palm.

The glow from the fire was dimming so there was only just enough light for the glass to twinkle in her hands but not enough to remove it. There was no pain so she saw no reason to fuss, it wasn't as if she had anyone to impress. The maids had all scuttled off to their families as she had announced, in a monotonous voice, that they could have a few days off. She was alone.

A loud clanging noise announced that she had an unwelcome guest.

There were three possible people who would have the nerve to visit at such an atrocious time. The first being Mrs Carrion, the fat nosy shrew from the less well-off streets west, who had no sense of propriety and would visit with the sole purpose of monologuing about her deceased husband and child. She could practically hear the enthusiastic drivel spewing from the woman's shrivelled lips "How much we have in common now! Such a shame He was so handsome and to have died so young! I feel your pain. My son was onl-… " The pain of listening to such idiocy would be enough to send her to Bedlam – there would be no doubt that she would go mad.

The second possibility was a stray child who was unaware of the monster behind the door but she was certain the majority of the town would have heard the news regarding her son and warned their offspring accordingly. No one knows how much the widow had snapped.

And lastly was the vile brat from the west side of town – it was all her fucking fault she now was alone.

All her fault.

With her doe-like eyes, her ridiculous delusions of adventure and her constant disobedience.

The brat damned them all.

Without the money to fund her indulgences and a sudden lack of heir; she would be out on the street by the end of the month. Being - dare she say it – a whore.

As if the first time wasn't bad enough.

Not even bothering to pick up the glass nor fix the stray brown strands of hair which fell in her eyes, she stumbled over to the floor length curtains. Grasping the torn material, she attempted to spy who was at the door.

"Fuck"

She should have known.

The lank red hair made it obvious who was at the door even though she couldn't see the scrawny girl's – Sarah was it?- face. Where the hell was her escort? Was she stupid enough to run three miles alone?Apparently so.

She had no urge to answer the door. If she did, she'd be obligated to explain the circumstances of her son's death, the majority of which she didn't know, to a snivelling mess.

The obnoxious arsehole of a husband was probably laughing his arse off at her expense in hell.

Consoling others was never one of her talents, neither was suppressing her anger. By opening the door she'd be forced to do both.

However, by not opening the door, she was admitting she couldn't handle the death of her son and that was notan option (also, she added wearily, the longer the brat stays here, the longer it'll take to sweep her footprints off the porch).

Wine was needed. She gulped down another glassful (she had a stack of new glasses near her armchair, as previous experience told her that, with alcohol, she had a tendency to smash them) The world became a bit blurrier but she managed to stumble her way to the front door. After choosing which door to open (for some reason there was two; she only recalled only having one) and fumbling with the lock, she pulled open the door and arranged her face in the scariest manner she could.

It seemed to work.

The child looked like she shat herself. Then again, she always did.

Her tongue seemed to work on it's own accord – "What the fuck are you doin'?" She meant to say 'here' at the end of her sentence but the intoxication was fogging up her thoughts. She was vaguely aware of scrutinizing Sa-ah-lly's appearance and the pathetic mumblings of a low class child but she couldn't gather up enough patience to care.

The only words which interested her were 'Jack' and 'talk'. Both considering her state of mind and the impossibility tickled a funny bone she never knew she had.

Her vocal cords vibrated and noise came out but if you asked her the next day she'd have no recollection of laughing and would more than likely chase you round the manor with a broomstick trying to knock some sense into your brain.

The laughing fit started a chain reaction of hiccups so her informative speech regarding the impossibility of contacting the dead wasn't as biting as she'd hoped it would be but she felt the general message of 'Piss off. I'm trying to get so drunk I can't remember I'm in mourning and soon poverty' was demonstrated quite vividly by collapsing in an alcoholic heap.

Her last coherent thought before she blacked out was – 'When the fuck did the brat get two shadows?'

StarGazeEyes: IfeelthisisbetterthanmylastchapterbecauseIwasreadingoveritandthinking 'Ishouldbeshot'

Jack: What have you done? What have yooou done?

StarGazeEyes:Iknowright-_-ThischapterisreallyshortbutIfeelmorefrequentbutshortchaptersarebetterthanlongrarechapter.PlusIhavenoideawhatyou'rethinking;noonereviewsanymore:'(

Jack: There, there

StarGazeEyes:Jack!*glomps*

Jack: *emotional blackmail* Help me by reviewing!