Sandra - Point of view.

Doreen pulled things haphazardly from the kitchen cupboard.  A saucepan clattered onto the tiled floor, swiftly followed by a tin of shoe polish. Doreen swore under her breath, 'Where the hell had she put it?'
Two very grubby dusters. Doreen grimaced, her mother would not approve of her dirty dusters.
Nothing new there then.  It didn't matter what she did it was never quite good enough for May.
Doreen carelessly knocked a box of washing powder off its perch and it fell dispersing its contents in a mountainous white heap on the floor. 'Damn', she muttered under her breath. 'Where was it ?'
Then she caught sight of a bottle standing behind the pile of paraphernalia on the top shelf. 'Was that it?'.
With both hands Doreen threw the offending items blocking her view of the bottle onto the floor.
She grabbed the bottle and undoing the cap with shaky hands took a big slug.
The whisky hit the back of her throat like a warm fire. She took another slug before finding a tea cup and filling it to the brim with the whisky.  With bottle in one hand and cup in the other she went through to her
living room and kicking aside a newspaper sat wearily down on the stained and threadbare sofa, with its horsehair stuffing poking through.
She sighed and leant back.  Her dark auburn hair fanned out over the sofa. Doreen closed her eyes as if by doing so she could for a moment block out the world.
It was hoity-toity Janet in Gibbs Grocers that had told her in a very superior fashion that she thought her daughter Sarah might be pregnant.  Bad enough to be told your daughter might be up the duff. But, shit to be told by Janet!  Doreen took another large sip of whisky and rather incredulously realised the cup was empty.
She filled it again from the bottle.
Doreen could just hear Janet telling all the customers in the shop that "Doreen Baker's girl Sarah was pregnant. Like mother like daughter."  God, half the village would know now.
Suddenly it became very evident why Sarah had been avoiding her. Why, she spent endless hours at her Grans house. That was probably where she was now- unless she was in her bedroom. Doreen called out to her. 'Sarah, Sarah'. There was no reply the house remained as silent as a mausoleum, just Doreens voice reverberating around the rooms.
Doreens weariness was suddenly replaced by an intense anger.  'SARAH' she screamed as she downed the rest of the cup of whisky. This time not bothering with the cup she picked up her precious bottle and walked unsteadily towards the stairs. 'SARAH'.
Sarahs bedroom door was ajar. Doreen pushed it open. Sarah was not there. Her wardrobe door was open and the small blue suitcase was missing along with most of her clothes. Doreen knew straightaway where
Sarah had gone.
Well,, it was no good Sarah trying to hide from her. She would show her. Sarah might be sixteen but she had to learn she could not just run away from this one.  Doreen tipped the bottle up and downed the remainder of the whisky. She looked at the bottle with disgust then threw it against the wall and laughed hysterically as the glass shards flew like poisoned arrows around the room.
Doreen half ran and half stumbled the mile or so to Mays house.  Several villagers stepped aside to let her pass tut-tutting to themselves and nodding their heads sanctomoniously.  She did indeed make a strange sight
with her pink slippers, half unbuttoned blouse and uncombed hair. Lurching from one side of the path to the other. Swearing eloquently at any lamp post that dared to block her way. She, Doreen Baker would show them all!

SINGING

On this field of broken glass

I stand alone, barefoot.

With each step I take

The red blood flows

Forming rivers between my toes

And in the distance

I hear you singing.

I am so cold

I cannot stop trembling

My head is pounding

My eyes are burning

Is it the fiery whisky

That brings me to my knees

Or just you in the distance

Singing.