When Rose was little, she’d find her mom passed out on the couch, a bottle of wine loosely held by her hands, which were dangling off the seat. The wine had spilled from the bottle, staining the carpet red.
No matter how much Rose tried, her mom wouldn’t wake. She cried, shook her, yelled into her ear, anything a small child would’ve thought to do in that situation.
Despite her pleas, Mom Lalonde didn’t budge. Rose gave up, opting to just try and go to sleep on the opposite end of the couch, stomach empty. Her mother didn’t rise until the next morning, unaware of what had occurred the previous day.
From that day forward, Rose made her own dinners.
The red liquid reflects only her face as Rose stares into the glass. She’s 14, on a meteor with an unfamiliar species, heading to a new session of the game she played for her friend’s birthday.
Her mother is dead.
Rose has murky feelings about her mother, one she chooses to ignore by following the same path her mother did. Tears fall as she brings the glass to her lips, and takes a sip of wine.