The kitchen was starting to look like prop storage for Leaving Las Vegas. Counter top real estate was growing scarce. Aidan pushed the empty bottles back to make room for the latest addition. The rattling of glass spiked her hang-over induced headache considerably. But she didn't even care. Honestly what was that when compared to reality?

 

Not only was she no longer the Internet Champion. Not only had she fallen just 20 days short of setting the record for the longest Internet Championship reign, but now? Now she was fucking unemployed too. Everything was falling apart around her. Every last piece of her life. So why not fall apart right along with it?

 

She swayed slightly as she pushed her hand back through her sleep-tousled hair. The clock claimed it was almost eleven thirty. She wasn't quite convinced. It didn't feel that late. Then again she hadn't fallen asleep until almost three AM.

 

The concrete stairs were frigid beneath her bare feet as she made her way out to the mailbox. It had been a day or two since she'd bothered to check it. There were too many damn ads, and now the bills seemed to taunt her newfound lack of income when she flipped her way through them. At least she'd made a few smart investments. She could coast if she was careful.

 

The lot of it was all dumped on the little table just inside the door. Ads, HOA notices, charities looking for donations, even the bills... They all went ignored. But there was one small white envelope that caught her eye. It was plain, with no return address. The address was printed directly on the envelope and it looked like it had even been from some ancient ass dot matrix.

 

Curiosity got the best of her. She ran her fingernail under the edge of the flap and tore it open across the top. The card inside was small, the size you'd expect from some little Thank You or maybe an invitation. When she flipped it over to look at the front, it simply read, “I'm Sorry.”

 

She was just about to flip it open to read the inside when something else caught her attention. A slightly gritty feeling on her fingertips. At first she thought it was probably a bit of dirt off the envelope, but when she looked down she noticed a kind of white dust. Her brow furrowed as she stared at it and the spot on the corner of the card where she had inadvertently brushed it off.

 

She sniffled as she turned toward the kitchen, finding herself with a sudden runny nose. She was still trying to brush the powder off of her fingertips as she stared at the card. Her heart began to speed up, and she found herself surprised at the unexpected apprehension over it. She stifled a cough as she walked. Fuck she was going to be mad if she was getting sick on top of everything else.

 

The world tilted as her foot hit where the hardwood met the tile. Her knees went to jelly. Muscles suddenly refused to work, even her lungs wouldn't obey. The understanding hit her in an instant, along with the floor. She wheezed, struggling to breathe, struggling to move. In one of the drawers, somewhere, which one was it?

 

She could barely haul herself up high enough to pull open the first of the drawers and look inside. Just potholders. Her hand fumbled blindly in the second, because she couldn't hold herself up anymore. Silverware. She looked at her own arm as she crawled toward the next drawer. If everything else wasn't a sure enough sign, the hives forming on her skin confirmed it; anaphylaxis.

 

“Come on!” her brain urged. Where... which one was it? Where had she stuck her epipen? She kept one in her purse at all times, but her purse was all the way upstairs. There was one in the top drawer in each of the bathrooms too, but she couldn't remember for the life of her—literally—which one of the dozen and a half drawers in the kitchen she'd stuck one in.

 

Her head was starting to spin. Her lungs burned. She could feel her throat starting to swell too. The room blurred as her eyes started to water. Rather than finding the next drawer when her hand groped blindly up at the counter, she managed to knock several of the empty bottles off instead. They shattered when they hit the tile.

 

The last bit of her strength sapped when her palm skidded on the glass when she tried to pull herself further toward the next counter. The floor was cold against her skin as she blinked to try to clear her vision. She wanted to keep moving, to keep looking, but her limbs weren't responding. Every breath was harder to draw than the last.

 

Had she still had the ability, she would have given a bitter laugh. Of all the ways she had dreamed she might die over the last few months, an allergic reaction wasn't it. That all alone part? Yeah, that was spot on. But the worst bit? She didn't even want to right now. She wanted the epipen. She wanted to be able to get to her phone and call for an ambulance. As much as the scene around her made it look like she was trying to drink herself to death, she really did want to keep on going.

 

But no. She could picture the headline already. It wouldn't make a newspaper, nah, but maybe a few gossip websites, “Former Wrestler Found Dead Surrounded by Broken Liquor Bottles in Her Home.” The cruelty of life had to mock her unto the last...