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She was hungover. Again.
Stumbling to the bathroom, Abra Stone pulled open the cracked medicine cabinet, fumbling with a package of Excedrin in hopes of alleviating her pounding headache. She swallowed two, not bothering to get a drink as she turned the faucet on, splashing her face when she was done. She could already tell today was going to be awful, she always could.
For a moment, she was a bit dazed. She knew where she was, she was in her own, run-down apartment. But what else?
“My name is Abra Rafaella Stone. I’m 26, and it’s 2027.” Repeating it out loud seemed to clear away the haze that drifted in her head, and she made it to her couch, collapsing on it and closing her eyes again. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. In a few hours, she would get up, go to a bar, and the cycle would start all over again.
It was ironic, but not surprising. She once had told her Uncle Dan Torrance that she would never drink. That one sip at Jennifer’s party back in ’13 had convinced her that alcohol was awful and that there was no big deal, but it seemed that her words came to bite her in the ass. When she started drinking, she didn’t even like the taste. She only drank to blot out her shining, which had peaked when she was 19. It was still strong, but she hated it, wished that she didn’t have it. Yet…
“Fuck,” she groaned, rolling off the couch. The Excedrin didn’t help a lot in terms of her headache, and she forced herself to get up and go to the kitchen. Might as well make something to eat, she definitely wasn’t going to get sleep.
Her kitchen was a mess. Dishes piled up in the sink and growing their own ecosystem, bread left out and probably stale by now, a pot of gunk on the stove that Abra couldn’t even distinguish. When was the last time she had a meal that wasn’t of BBQ chicken wings or greasy, over-salted French fries?
Not for the first time in the past month, Abra wished that she was just dead. When she was younger, she loved her gift, but as she grew older and more thoughts that weren’t her own invaded her mind, she knew it was a curse. This thing she was born with was awful, and she bitterly wished for it to be gone.
The worst part, though, were the beings she had called the “ghostie people” when she was younger. People who were dead and resenting it came back as ghostie people, and although most didn’t bother her, there were ones that left bits of themselves and tormented her. She had many lockboxes of the ghostie people from the True Knot in her mind now.
Taking a couple slices of stale bread and slipping it in the toaster, Abra exhaled and leaned against the counter, looking over at the millions of notes that covered her fridge. One of them was just a phone number, no other information, but she knew who it was, and on instinct she picked up her battered iPhone, her fingers hovering over the keypad.
When was the last time she talked to any of her family? She saw her parents at a Christmas party last year, and her Uncle had been working at the hospice in Frazier at that time. Billy Freeman – who had become like a grandfather to her – passed away in ’21.
Dialing the number, Abra hoped that it would go to voicemail. Maybe the phone number was disconnected, or maybe he was currently busy and couldn’t pick up. Unfortunately, on the 3rd ring the phone picked up, and the voice spoke immediately.
“Abra? Is everything alright?”
The voice was concerned and her uncle sounded every bit of 43 he was. Of course he knew, because he had the shining as well, it was he who helped her when Rose O’Hara – also known as Rose the Hat – was leading her gang of sociopathic child-killers and trying to take kill Abra to take her own ability.
“Uncle Dan,” she said, her voice choking up a bit. She didn’t think she would get this far, but now that the phone had actually been picked up, she wanted nothing more than to tell her uncle everything that was ailing her.
Daniel Torrance waited for Abra patiently, and after a moment, Abra swallowed, her knuckles turning white from her grip on the phone. “I’m sick. I don’t know what to do.”
He knew what she was talking about right away. After all, alcoholism ran deep on the Torrance side of the family, his grandfather was an alcoholic, his father was an alcoholic, hell, despite years of being in AA (Mr. Torrance was now celebrating his 26th year of sobriety), Danny knew he was still an alcoholic at heart.
“Abra,” he started, his voice firm as he spoke through the phone. “Do you remember what I told you about your great-grandfather on your birthday when you were 15?”
It took Abra a couple moments to recollect the memories. “That was after I broke my mom’s china plates, right?” she asked, sniffling slightly. “You gave me a history of the drunks in your family.”
“That’s right,” Dan said. “I said someday you might write poetry like your momo. Or you might push somebody off a high place with your mind.”
Abra frowned. “You can’t know that’s exactly what you said. It was so long ago,” she tried to argue, but they both knew it was true, and she wiped at her eyes, willing herself to stop crying.
Dan didn’t respond to her words, and instead continued. “I told you before, I’m all out of lecturing. You say you’re sick and tired, but are you sick and tired of being sick and tired?”
Abra didn’t respond, answering silently instead. Long distance telepathy wasn’t her thing, but she was able to partially do it when using the phone as a medium, or attaching certain emotions and thoughts to emails.
“The year you were born,” Dan started, “I joined a group called Alcoholics Anonymous, in Frazier. I was like you. Always shitfaced, travelling and always drinking to drown out the shining. Things don’t have to be like this.”
Abra listened, entranced, and subconsciously her mind was made up. “I’ll give you a number that you can call.”
After reciting the number and exchanging farewells, Dan hung up the phone, and Abra stared down at her phone. She gently set it down at the counter, debating whether or not she should eat her now-cold toast. Glancing down at the number she had scrawled out, she remembered Dan’s words.
Are you sick and tired of being sick and tired?
She was. His sponsor told him the same thing when he first started AA. Casey Kingsley, probably dead now. She couldn’t have known that but she did, and it was then when she knew that the shining was as strong as ever. His words strengthened her resolve to change her lifestyle.
Without thinking twice, she picked back up the phone and dialed the number.