As Drunk As Chloé ONC 2024

Whiskey: Five

Chloé holes herself in the shower long enough that she's more pruned than a raisin on every crevice, but still not able to quit repeating the image in her head.

The gun, the shooting, over and over again.

It doesn't fade even as two days go by, unlike the bruises. After her first boring shit assisting clients with prescriptions, she runs into the staff toilet for break to discover they've have gotten significantly lighter. If anybody sees it, they'd think it's just a mosquito bite.

Chloé longs for such bliss. She wishes that night would just stay dead and gone, but it's adamant on haunting her.

It defies all sense, people don't get simple bruises from gun shots in their chest, she would've been bleeding out or the more likely conclusion- she'd be dead. The other night she had driven herself mad enough to think she was a ghost until catching a pervy customer 'accidentally' brush her breasts in reaching for their packaged meds.

Prior to that, she searched for a plausible explanation for the bruises which lead to the fatal mistake of seeking help from Google. An hour after exhausting herself on links, she concluded she's concocted a very rare, pox diseases that's been extinct since the industrial age or... the other answer.

The answer that's connected to why the gun wasn't fully loaded and why the police hadn't found any evidence of it at the crime scene.

The answer that ebbs away in her, itching an inkling she hasn't even acknowledged that there's something more to that night she's forgotten and needs to remember. Soon enough, Chloé succumbs to the reality that there's only one way to be sure.

**

The city police station is rather quiet that afternoon, so it doesn't take long for someone to attend to Chloé and as luck may have it, she's informed that the charming hunk she's here for is currently at his desk.

Once directed, she weaves through the area and soon locates officer Troy. He's not clad in that matching dark coat under the vest but instead, a simple dark tee with short sleeves that allow his tanned arms are in display. Finely crossed over his broad chest with this eyes all sensually serious as he nods to whatever the elderly blonde broad in a pantsuit is talking to him about.

Chloé calls out his name, subsequently catching the woman's attention along with his and when those aged blue eyes meet her own, Chloé realises it's no stranger.

The woman's finely knitted brows furrow as she utters, 'Chloé?'

Caught in the same stupor, Chloé blurts in return, 'Mum?'

Troy, as sharp as a tac, puts two together. 'You have a daughter?' There's sheer shock in his voice and understandably so.

Past the shared ash brown hair, people find it hard to see the resemblance between her and her mother. Her mother is plump and larger in stature, constantly bearing a stern expression and smiles maybe once every blue moon. Whereas Chloé's a twig in comparison, barely average height on a good day and laughs as a reflex to practically any situation.

Most of all, her mother sustained her surname in regards to her professional capacity. Outside the courts and related fields, she goes by judge Ebney.

'Well, I didn't know my daughter was acquainted with an officer.' There's a pointed look she serves Chloé, ice chillingly cold and means, 'What did you do now?'

'In a way, I suppose,' Troy answers. 'It was actually just last week, I questioned her on a minor civil matter she got roped in.'

Her mother places a hand on her wide hips, eyes narrowed. 'Oh, I haven't heard anything about this.'