She had been sitting on the bridge all night, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. The bottle of vodka in her hand was running low, but that didn't phase her. Staring at the horizon, she awaited the first rays of the sunrise to wash over her with warmth. Jean silently came to sit beside her, not speaking at first.

"What happened to you, Annie?" she asked quietly, not looking at her.

Shrugging, she responded in monotone, "Love."

"Is that why you started drinking?" Jean inquired, looking at her.

"It takes away the pain," Annie stated slowly, turning to return Jean's gaze. "The pain always comes back, but its my temporary escape. I don't even know where to begin-- desperation always wins." She smiled halfheartedly. "I know it sounds stupid."

Jean remained quiet, observing the awakening horizon. She was deep in thought, analyzing Annie's theory.

When Jean failed to respond, Annie continued, "I was always scared."

Jean looked at her quizically, "Scared of what?"

"Of this. To start drinking. I never wanted to start because I knew this would happen," she exclaimed, indicating herself. "I'm a disease; a threat to myself. I'm just drowning myself in alcohol as a weak attempt to supress the pain. The agony. Trying to avoid reality."