200 Hours ✗ Misfits [Nathan Young]

Origin Story

A/N: HELLO!  If you're following this story, you just got a chapter notification after, like, years...and I'M GONNA GET EVEN MORE ANNOYING!  So basically I thought I could do better than I had with this story, and I think I have.  It took me a while, but I am now happy with the product.  This story was four chapters long.  I have re-written all of them and it had become five.  They're longer, better, funnier (though that's just my opinion) and there's a new character (which is a fact).  If you don't want to re-read the first 4 chapters, I totally get it.  If you read this one, you will be getting a repeat of some stuff you've read before.  But if you want to re-read it all with the new stuff -- ah, thank you so much, I hope it's worth it.  thank you.

ALSO, new/updated soundtrack.  If you like tunes, please listen and I hope you like it.  I have a Spotify with the full soundtrack if you're interested.

Disclaimer: I do not own Misfits. Any similarity in content and dialogue originated with the show and Howard Overman.

TW: There's a lot of hangover nausea talk if you dislike that.....  There will be vomit.  Wow, this is a great start to my writing renewal, huh?  As per usual, an upsetting amount of swearing.

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Chapter 5 - Origin Story

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There's only so far back in your memory alcohol can reach. Izzy had tested those boundaries now and again. Her 18th birthday had chunks of it scooped out with a melon baller, courtesy of multiple upsettingly sweet tropical drinks shoved her way by a grinning Max. She had probably cried far more than she remembered that night Ian ended things with her. And last night...she'd bought the vodka and wine and tequila hoping some unholy combination would obliterate the last 24 hours in their entirety. But no matter how much liquor you suck down, the bit before the first sip always sticks. She knew that now.

Fucking ow.

The alarm clock blared loudly. Each beep timed itself to a violent throb of her head. Neither of those woke her fully, but rather held her in a nausea-tinged suspension. The slam of her neighbor's fist against the flat's paper-thin walls did the trick. "Turn that fucking thing off for fuck's sake!"

The whine Izzy released pushed stale, sour breath past her lips. That a moth didn't fly from her mouth when she opened it was surprising, "I got it," she croaked, batting about for the alarm. "Keep your knickers on."

Closing her mouth again presented a whole new level of offense. The inside felt of cotton balls and expensive French cheese, woolly and sticky with a bitter aftertaste. Had she died? Was she dead? Because the dry air of the flat had leached all moisture from her body and left her with the youthful bloom of a mummified corpse. Her hand groped around, still seeking the alarm.

"Turn the fucker off!"

"All right, all right!"

Now with no other options, Izzy broke the crust of sleep holding her eyes closed. Her face wasn't pressed into her mattress as she'd thought, but into the seat cushion of her sofa. Its fabric was infinitely rougher than her cheap jersey sheets, but she was still too out of it to tell the difference. The telly flickered opposite her, bombarding her retinas with the garish lime greens and magentas of early morning cartoons. She wanted to close them again, but the alarm clock shrieked and her head ached.

Izzy rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands in a fruitless attempt to wake mind along with body. She rose from the sofa with posture slumped like a wilted plant, clad only in a cotton bra and underpants, both of which sticky with sweat. Fuck, she was dehydrated. She stumbled over to the alarm clock and yanked out the cord, silencing its screams. But leaning over was enough to push her off kilter. Her head swam and her stomach lurched.