Leaving on a Plane

Dorian is understandably upset with me. He’s not upset that I drank a bunch, or even the story about my flirting with the bartender.

He was mad because I drank so much that I passed out. First time in… well, almost a week thanks to that day with the two pills in the morning. But before that, not for a very long time. 

He knows it, I know it. He’s also upset that Raphael told me when he was getting off work and I passed out. 

Dorian’s not big on passed opportunity because of alcohol, so guess who pulled his last Sir card for April and grounded me?

Grumpy butt. 

I slept most of the morning away, then got anxious in the airport. I dreamed about blood and pain. 

I don’t dream about blood, pain, yes, but not blood. It creeped me out. So now sitting on the tarmac, waiting for the plane to move, I’m starting to have an anxiety attack. 

I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to go home. 

And I think I left my stuffed animal in the hotel room. Ugh. 

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