The Siren Song of Oblivion

When the pain is too much, when the silence of your own mind feels unbearable, there’s always something calling you toward escape. A glass. A bottle. A pill. A screen. A siren song promising just enough numbness to drift away, to forget for a moment what it means to feel too much.

For my protagonist from Midnight Chase, Daniella Torres, that siren song takes the form of rum. It’s her sanctuary not only during a rough period currently happening in her life, but also at the crumbling Starlight Motel, her temporary haven in a world shattered by loss. The bottle hushes the whispers of self-doubt. It makes the darkness tolerable. But like all false refuges, it asks for more than it gives.

The Allure of False Peace

When I wrote Daniella into the neon red haze of the Starlight Motel, I knew she wasn’t there to heal. She was there to disappear. Rum became her companion not because she’s weak, but because she’s human. It gives her “a blessed sleepiness,” a pause in the relentless storm of grief and guilt.

It’s the coping we don’t talk about enough. The kind that doesn’t look heroic, but feels necessary when your heart is bleeding out and you don’t know what else to do. Daniella’s drinking isn’t about indulgence; it’s about survival. And in that way, it’s deeply, painfully relatable.

The Moment of Choice

And then—there’s Ray, a character I never thought I’d give backstory to. A friendly stranger with his own troubles, offering her a drink. It should have been the easy decision: another shot of oblivion, another night drowned in alcohol instead of thought. But in that quiet, pivotal moment, Daniella asks for something different.

Water.

It’s the simplest of choices, something that perhaps someone wouldn’t even give a second thought to. However, it’s monumental. In that single act, she chooses clarity over comfort, presence over escape. She doesn’t know yet how to heal. She doesn’t know if she can. But she knows, in that moment, she won’t let herself disappear. That “no” to rum is the first step toward saying “yes” to herself again.

The Writer’s Reflection

When I wrote this chapter, I realized the most important word in it wasn’t dripping with horror or despair. It was a soft, stubborn “No.”

As a writer who often pulls from personal shadows, this scene became a mirror. I’ve lived through my own seasons of grief and heartbreak, where the temptation to vanish—into work, into noise, into anything but the ache and discomfort—felt overwhelming. Writing Daniella’s refusal to escape wasn’t only for her; it was for me, too. It was my reminder that even in the smallest choices, we reclaim power.

This is the turning point where Daniella shifts from victim to agent, from running to resisting. And for me, it’s where the heart of the story beats loudest.

Finding Your Anchor

The monsters in Midnight Chase aren’t only the ones scratching at motel doors or lurking in the corners where sunlight can’t reach. They’re the voices that whisper we’re not strong enough, the temptations that beg us to disappear. The real victory isn’t slaying the creature. It’s finding the courage to stay, to breathe, to fight for one more day.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. Maybe you’ve stood at your own crossroads, choosing between escape and endurance. If so, please know this: every “no” to disappearing is a “yes” to your own strength.

Daniella’s story is still unfolding, but her quiet rebellion—the choice of water over rum—is one of my favorite moments I’ve ever written. It’s proof that sometimes the smallest decisions carry the greatest weight.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

When faced with your own monsters, big or small, what’s the glass of water you can reach for today?