Sabotage | R | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Sabotage
Prompt: D is for Deliberate
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Challenge
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: chainofclovers
Rating: R
Word Count: 621
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Even I felt bad for Andy when I wrote this. Don’t come after me with pitchforks; the angst had to happen. Un-beta’d…all mistakes are mine. Let me know what you think!
-
The first swallow burned at her throat, exploding like acidic fire once it hit her chest. She nearly gagged on the cough that she choked out, clenching her eyes tightly and hoping the wave of nausea would soon pass. She glanced at the bottle, at the rather innocuous watermelon design on the label, and decided to have another swallow. What could it hurt?
It didn’t hurt.
Andy didn’t feel a goddamn thing.
The bite of the vodka was a welcome change to the pain that had consumed her, the pain that had broken her down so efficiently that Andy wondered if she’d ever be able to put herself back together again.
She slumped back against the cabinet in her kitchen, allowing her legs to slide along the linoleum until her ass smacked on the ground. It should have stung to feel the hard floor hitting her at just the right spot on her lower back. She felt nothing more than the alcohol infecting her veins like poison and the chasm of emptiness growing wider and wider in her chest. She mused over the possibility of her torso bursting open as it accepted the complete weight of her sadness and sorrow and nothingness. Surely it couldn’t all be contained inside of her - there simply wasn’t enough of Andy Sachs to hold all of the pain she felt.
She took another sip. It didn’t sting as badly as it went down, but it sure as hell didn’t taste like watermelon. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, reminding her of cleaning scraped knees and washing away temporary tattoos. Suddenly she missed her mother so much that she lost her breath. She drank again.
Andy glared at the bottle, focusing dimly on the little picture of the watermelon. She remembered a summer day in the park, eating the fruit with two red-haired twins. Their mother had looked on, not partaking the consumption of the watermelon, and raised a disapproving eyebrow at the juices that dripped down the triumvirate’s chins. Andy then laughed at the terminology her brain had bestowed upon her relationship with the twins, easily recalling how effectively the three of them had ruled Miranda Priestly. Together, they had a power no mere mortal possessed.
Andy stared at her empty hands. She’d lost her power. She’d lost the twins. She’d lost Miranda.
She gulped down another swig of vodka, tilting her head back as another wave of protesting nausea overcame her senses. No. She couldn’t lose her will to continue this deliberate sabotage, not until she had completely wiped away the face of the woman who left her.
It hurt again-not the alcohol, but the memory of their parting. She recalled the sight of Miranda’s back turning on her as she walked away, the way it felt like the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere when she realized that Miranda would never come back again.
Gone. She was gone. Never coming back. Miranda needed more, wanted too much. Andy wasn’t enough. Andy was never enough despite the two years they shared together. She knew it all along and yet, she never thought Miranda would leave. She had blindly assumed that they had a love that would surpass all the bullshit that couples faced. She’d been an idiot.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes and slapped a hand against the linoleum in protest. She could feel the prickle of sensation against her palm. She realized she’d not yet had enough to drink.
Andy swallowed a mouthful, and then another. She knew the stupidity of her actions, knew that she would feel worse--not better--in the morning. But tonight, she didn’t care.
Tonight, she needed to feel nothing at all.
---
Prompt: D is for Deliberate
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Challenge
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: chainofclovers
Rating: R
Word Count: 621
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Even I felt bad for Andy when I wrote this. Don’t come after me with pitchforks; the angst had to happen. Un-beta’d…all mistakes are mine. Let me know what you think!
-
The first swallow burned at her throat, exploding like acidic fire once it hit her chest. She nearly gagged on the cough that she choked out, clenching her eyes tightly and hoping the wave of nausea would soon pass. She glanced at the bottle, at the rather innocuous watermelon design on the label, and decided to have another swallow. What could it hurt?
It didn’t hurt.
Andy didn’t feel a goddamn thing.
The bite of the vodka was a welcome change to the pain that had consumed her, the pain that had broken her down so efficiently that Andy wondered if she’d ever be able to put herself back together again.
She slumped back against the cabinet in her kitchen, allowing her legs to slide along the linoleum until her ass smacked on the ground. It should have stung to feel the hard floor hitting her at just the right spot on her lower back. She felt nothing more than the alcohol infecting her veins like poison and the chasm of emptiness growing wider and wider in her chest. She mused over the possibility of her torso bursting open as it accepted the complete weight of her sadness and sorrow and nothingness. Surely it couldn’t all be contained inside of her - there simply wasn’t enough of Andy Sachs to hold all of the pain she felt.
She took another sip. It didn’t sting as badly as it went down, but it sure as hell didn’t taste like watermelon. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, reminding her of cleaning scraped knees and washing away temporary tattoos. Suddenly she missed her mother so much that she lost her breath. She drank again.
Andy glared at the bottle, focusing dimly on the little picture of the watermelon. She remembered a summer day in the park, eating the fruit with two red-haired twins. Their mother had looked on, not partaking the consumption of the watermelon, and raised a disapproving eyebrow at the juices that dripped down the triumvirate’s chins. Andy then laughed at the terminology her brain had bestowed upon her relationship with the twins, easily recalling how effectively the three of them had ruled Miranda Priestly. Together, they had a power no mere mortal possessed.
Andy stared at her empty hands. She’d lost her power. She’d lost the twins. She’d lost Miranda.
She gulped down another swig of vodka, tilting her head back as another wave of protesting nausea overcame her senses. No. She couldn’t lose her will to continue this deliberate sabotage, not until she had completely wiped away the face of the woman who left her.
It hurt again-not the alcohol, but the memory of their parting. She recalled the sight of Miranda’s back turning on her as she walked away, the way it felt like the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere when she realized that Miranda would never come back again.
Gone. She was gone. Never coming back. Miranda needed more, wanted too much. Andy wasn’t enough. Andy was never enough despite the two years they shared together. She knew it all along and yet, she never thought Miranda would leave. She had blindly assumed that they had a love that would surpass all the bullshit that couples faced. She’d been an idiot.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes and slapped a hand against the linoleum in protest. She could feel the prickle of sensation against her palm. She realized she’d not yet had enough to drink.
Andy swallowed a mouthful, and then another. She knew the stupidity of her actions, knew that she would feel worse--not better--in the morning. But tonight, she didn’t care.
Tonight, she needed to feel nothing at all.
---