<em>Ingrid, spiraling</em><br/><br/>She burst through the door of her studio/apartment, pulling her boots off the second that she got inside. Fuck, but they made her feet hurt.  Beauty was pain sometimes. What a crock of shit.  She stumbled her way through the dark, a path she'd walked countless times before.  There was a bottle of Jack somewhere, she knew.  But where had she hidden it?  Under the kitchen sink?  She headed there and checked.  "Oh fuck yes," she said softly, her tears almost blinding her as she pulled the bottle out.<br/><br/>Not bothering with a glass or ice, she turned the bottle up and took two healthy swallows, not feeling the burn nearly as much as she had the first round.  "Fuck you, Morgan," she muttered and padded toward the couch.<br/><br/>"Step above a mall grade photographer…" she muttered darkly, repeating his hateful words.  "Battery operated boyfriends! You don't know<em>SHIT!</em>" She screamed at no one, at her mental Morgan.  She dropped onto the couch and took two more swallows out of the bottle, leaving just another few in there.  She didn't drink much and she knew that she was reaching her limit on consumption.  The bottle hadn't even been quite half full and it was a pint.  She could feel the alcohol hitting her blood stream and she wanted more.  She turned the bottle up and didn't stop until it was empty.  Three deep swallows and it was done.<br/><br/>She sat there, fuming, the alcohol beating through her veins, growing drunker and angrier with each passing thud of her heart.  After several long moments had passed, she wasn't quite sure how many, she got up and staggered out to her studio.  She flipped the glaring lights on angrily, the switch making an audible click as it snapped into place.<br/><br/>"Mall grade fucking goddamn shit!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, bending over as she shouted, her hands balled into fists at her sides.  Making her way over to the window nearest to the dumpster and shoved it open.  She pushed the screen out and smiled when she heard it hit the ground four stories below.  The fifth floor made quite a drop.<br/><br/>Tripping over her feet, she went to the scattered stack of prints, all shapes and sizes, that she had for various things, swearing at each and every one of them.  She lugged them, one at a time, over to the window and tossed them out.  "STUPID FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" she screamed into the night air.  One by one they landed on each other, the dumpster, and the pavement below.<br/><br/>She dropped to the floor under the window, sobbing hysterically, curling up into a ball with her side against the wall.  Her arms wrapped tightly around herself.  "I don't need you! I don't need any of you! FUCK YOU ALL!"  She choked on her tears and slid down into the floor, her body shaking from the force of her sobs.  She hated them all. Her parents. Daniel. All of them.  Who needed them? Not her! They didn't care.  They didn't love her, they didn't matter.  Not anymore.  She didn't need Morgan or his insults.  Had he not have insulted her work, she might have apologized to him for what she'd said - she had only said those things out of frustration, not even at him.<br/><br/>Trying to stand up, she faltered a few times before crawling toward the door.  Morgan. She wanted to kick his fucking face in, minus her boots. She'd do it in her stocking feet.  That son of a bitch! She'd claw his goddamn eyes out and shove them up his ass!  She hadn't insulted his work, the fucking tool!<br/><br/>Slowly she reached the door and pulled it open, crawling through the gap, her palms smacking on the floor.  The look in her eyes was nothing short of deranged.  Where was that bastard? Where was his studio?  She kept crawling till she found it.<br/><br/>[continued on the sixth floor, Morgan Delany's studio]<br/>