Cold Turkey

Tiffany hasn’t had anything to drink since finding out she was pregnant. She assumed it would be easy to quit, but now is realising it is harder than she thought. 407 words.

Content warning:
alcohol addiction

Tiffany had never thought of herself as an alcoholic.

Sure, she drank. But not enough for it to be a problem!

The most “habit” thing she did was have a glass of wine before bed every night. Just to help her sleep. That was supposed to be good for you!

At least, she’d read it was good for you. Online— A published article, of course. Not just from here-say or some random Facebook post. She wasn’t an idiot.

One glass of wine a night wasn’t a lot! And she only got drunk every… hmm… two weeks? At most.

And only on the weekends.

And only with her friends.

It was controlled, wasn’t it? She’d never thought her drinking was a problem.

But, apparently, it was much harder to quit than she ever thought it would be.

She was finding that she couldn’t fall sleep without it.

And she was getting headaches.

And her hands kept trembling.

And she’d lost her appetite.

But she couldn’t drink.


Not one drop.

Not now that she knew she was….

Tiffany touched a hand to the bump in her stomach, ignoring the sweat on her forehead as she ran her fingers across the most marvellous news she’d ever received.


She was pregnant.

She’d never thought she’d get pregnant (she always used protection, after all!), or that she’d look forward to having a child…. But now here she was; laying in bed at two in the morning playing audiobook after audiobook about how to be a good parent.

Because she was pregnant.

With who? Now that was a mystery.

She never kept track of her partners. That was part of the point— Masks, and dark rooms, and a little bit too much to drink. It all kept everything anonymous enough to be a thrill.

So the father could be anyone.

Literally anyone in the entirety of Los Diablos.

It could be that elven checkout clerk at the supermarket.

Or that orcish business man she saw every day at the bus stop.

Hell, it could be her next door neighbour! That strange little goblin man who kept to himself and ordered takeout every night.

She had no way to know.

It didn’t matter, though.

Whoever it was, wasn’t here.

And this was her baby.

Her baby.

And she would do what was right by them.

Even if it meant she was a sweaty, trembling, headachy mess.

She would do anything for them.


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