This takes place after Bonnie's death and shortly before Melanie's. A short piece as appropriate to the time period as I could make it, but I don't have much time for research and I wanted to write something like this.

She was lying on the ground. Shaking, possibly from the cold.

Rhett approached her carefully. He thought she'd have left for Marietta with the children already. Wade and Ella must have been around the house somewhere, but luckily they hadn't seen their mother decide to take a nap in the middle of the parlor.

The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the silence between them, but something felt terribly wrong. It was just a feeling, but it was too strong to ignore.

"Scarlett?"

There was no reply. Rhett moves closer to her, wary of the danger they posed to each other.

"Scarlett, you need to wake up."

What was she doing in the middle of the floor? Was she breathing? Yes, but barely.

A small, shaky voice came from her trembling form. "What's happening? Where—oh, yes. I'm quite well. No need to concern yourself with the books."

Scarlett's eyes fluttered open, clearly unused to the meager light provided by the fireplace. Her pupils were almost nonexistent; her eyes seemed to be empty and the palest shade of green.

"Books? Scarlett, what are you going on about? I only asked—"

"All very well and good, but I'm going to miss the train to Tara."

"Scarlett," he barked out to get her attention. "You weren't going to Tara. You were going to Marietta."

"I was? Right, Marietta.."

"Scarlett, are you sure you're… Scarlett?"

Her gaze had drifted away from him, and she leaned back on the rug. She curled into herself as best she could and tried to block out his annoying talking.

Scarlett got to her feet as best she could, but swayed violently. "What the hell are you doing here? I don't wanna talk to you."

"Wanna?"

"Where is it?" Scarlett began to drag herself towards the couch.

"Where is what? Scarlett," he ground out in warning. Her behavior was certainly not right. What was wrong with her?

"You know, the thing that Doctor Meade gave me. I left it over…" She kept slurring through the words, unable to completely separate them from one another. "Found it. But where's the rest?"

"What? What did you find?" Rhett was agitated with her behavior and reaching a breaking point.

"The thing that Doctor Meade gave me."

"Hand it to me."

"Idon'twanna. Gotta find the rest first."

"Scarlett, get over here."

"I said I didn't want to, Rhett," she mocked.

He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. Looking into her eyes, Rhett expected to find something. Anything but the absence of her pupils.

"What have you taken? Tell me," he demanded.

"Nothing but a little bit of morphine. It's nothing. Doctor Meade said it would help the pain from my cycles." She attempted to brush off his concern and move away, but she was unable to break his hold on her arm.

"Are you looking for more? Dear God, Scarlett. You take any more of that drug and you could die. How much have you taken? My God, I've never seen someone as… drugged as you are right now."

"I'm fine, Rhett." The slurring of her speech did not help in convincing him.

"I'm getting Doctor Meade," he announced, dragging Scarlett back to the sofa in the process. "You're going to stay here and if you touch one more drop of that stuff I'll skin you alive."

Scarlett drowsily nodded in response, allowing herself to lie down on the couch for no other reason than she didn't have the strength to comprehend the things he was saying, let alone fight him.

When Rhett and the Doctor arrived back at the Peachtree Street Mansion, Scarlett was still on the couch, but curled into herself. On closer examination, she was shaking again, although not breathing half as well as she had been earlier. A recently used syringe lay on the floor beside her, and bile pooled near her mouth.

"Scarlett, what the hell did I tell you?" Rhett bit off a curse at his own stupidity. Who would leave an addict all alone with their favorite drug when they had a house full of servants capable of babysitting her?

She simply moaned in response, not really understanding what had been said, but knowing that it was a disturbance to the peace she had finally accomplished. And all of the racket he was making certainly didn't help the nausea.

"I had no idea she would get out of control, Captain Butler," Doctor Meade pleaded while checking her eyes and vitals. "I need to attend to her. She's clearly had too much for her body to handle. Get Mammy and wait outside."

It felt like an eternity before Rhett was allowed to see her.

Even if he didn't love her, he needed to make sure that she was alright. That he hadn't killed her with his damned negligence.

She'd been moved to her own room once it was deemed no more dangerous than everything else that had already been done.

It took him a day to finally see her despite his need to know if she was well.

He slipped into the dark room and took a moment to observe her. She was curled up beneath the sheets, hugging her own knees and shivering.

"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me when you picked up that neat little habit," he taunted at the small lump on the bed.

She grunted after him in her most unladylike fashion, but refused to move.

"No matter," he continued, "it doesn't really matter. What matters now is keeping you off it. Still, I am rather curious. How long have you been able to keep up some sort of act? I suppose it would have associated with the long sleeves you seem to favor now. I thought you were catching a chill. I see now that it was for the bruises. How long as it been then? I think about four months ago was the last time I saw you in short sleeves."

"Go away, Rhett. I want to rest."

"But we need to talk. I want to make it clear that you will not take any more morphine. Your children have been through enough, they don't need a mother with even more substance abuse issues than before. Have you been keeping up the drinking? I should think that will have to go too. Clearly you can't be trusted to keep your intake to a reasonable amount."

"Go to Halifax, Rhett Butler," she spat.

"I can't do that, Scarlett. I first have to make sure you don't destroy the lives of everyone around you. Have you a death wish? Because the amount of morphine you've taken suggests so."

"So what if I do? It's my life, and I'll do what I want with it," she declared. She made a small dismissive gesture with her hand, the trembling of it all to obvious.

"It's not your life," Rhett screamed, his control snapping. "No matter what you think, it's not your life. When you throw it away, it's not you who suffers. When you're dead in the ground, it's everyone else who hurts. Who cries for you. Your life is not your own and you keep your selfish little hands off of it. You can live how you want when it hurts no one else, but you do not get to make the decision to kill yourself."

"Go away, go away, go away," Scarlett shrieked. "I don't want to hear it — any of it. You don't know what it's like to live in this hell. At least the morphine takes the edge off. I can get rest for two seconds."

She was so hot. Why was the room boiling? She'd already tried taking off the blankets, but then she began to freeze and had to pull them back up. Gooseflesh had risen all over her body, and she was practically dripping with sweat.

"I'm trapped in this marriage too, in case you've forgotten."

"But you get to do whatever you want whenever you want and I'm stuck with no power over my own actions."

"You go wherever you want to."

"Not if you don't know. You have to clear everything. And Heaven forbid I even look at another man. I just want to get away from it all: the insults, the silence, and the pain. You wouldn't know. You get to drink yourself to death and no one interferes. They just blame me and pat your shoulder. What if I want the same thing?"

"I can control my alcohol, Scarlett."

"Says the man who reeks of whiskey and cheap perfume," she shot back.

"Stop it, Scarlett. No more. No more morphine, no more brandy. Or anything else. I want you sober. It's not a choice."

"You'd never know if I was using again. I'll do what I want as long as it eases the pain. I successfully hid it for several months, you think you can stop me?"

"Watch me. Or save us all the trouble and quit on your own."

"You don't control me, Rhett Butler."

"Well, I'm going to try my damned hardest to control this aspect, if nothing else."

She continued to lie there, suffering in silence.