(no subject)
Mary slumps against the bar, hand propping up her head.
"Ish not my fault,"she murmurs.
The bartender says something in Italian, meant to be soothing, but generalized, she could be anyone sitting there. He sees a customer like this at least once a night.
"ist the end of the world," she says. "War, famine, pestilence, Death on a pale horse."
"Mmhmm,"he says, wiping down the bar. Mary shoves money at him.
"Another one, sir!"
He slides the glass over to her. She's on the hard stuff now, although she'd started with pink colored cocktails with umbrellas.
"Nobody listens to me!"Mary says. "I did everything I could. Tell me! Am I invisible? Have I always been?"
"Hmmm?"
She glares up at the ceiling.
"How could you do this? Are you punishing us? Or maybe you're dead after all."
She feels tired, and helpless, impotent in the face of what just happened.