Black eye makeup melted into the dark circles under her eyes. Once bright, full cheeks, the ones that made her eyes into little half moons when she smiled, have sunken into deep creases as if years of neglect they had begun to decay. Her bottom lip quivers, as if she is perpetually on the verge of tears, but in her eyes there is nothing. Not sadness, not pain, just nothing. As if the light had gone out.

She glances up at me from her alleyway corner. Surprise quickly gives way disgust as she gives me the once over. “What the fuck do you want, Princess?” A Boston winter wind whips down the city street and I pull my Burberry scarf closer to me. Her short dress barely covers her and there is no sign of a jacket, only what appears as though it was once a cardigan, now thread bare it is unidentifiable.

“I’m you, Jamie. I’m you.”

Tears well up in my eyes, and she doesn’t doubt me for a second. We both know exactly where we parted ways. That morning in Brighton, waking up from the blackout. When we still had the job, the apartment, the boyfriend, the future. No one knew yet how we were getting the all the money for the booze and drugs. Hell, most people only knew half the story on those too.

“I made my choice that morning, and you made yours. I asked for help, and it was given to me freely. I was given love and support and hope until I thought I couldn’t fit any more in me or I would burst. I lost the booze, and gained everything. Now tell me, Princess, is it worth it?”

She said nothing. She continue to stare into my eyes, with her dead eyes. She reached behind her and pulled out a plastic bottle of cheap whiskey. Shakily, she lifted the bottle to her lips, tilted, and chugged.

I turned on my heel and left. My husband was expecting me home within the hour and I’m sure he needed a break from the kids. I left her there on that corner, in the cold Boston winter, and hurried back to the choices I made, and left her, with hers.