In Drunken Matrimony ✔️

One - I Now Pronounce You A Dumb Bitch

Hᴀʟʟɪᴇ

My head hangs, trembling fingers carding through knotted butter blonde hair that has parted in thick stringy sections, abused by the sweat of my palms.

They have not stopped sweating. I have not stopped sweating.

Intoxication has never done me well. Prior to this, I have only been so inebriated twice before - once throwing up on my mother's cashmere rug before collapsing into it. The second, waking with a hangover so violent and memories so lacking, I refused to leave my room for four whole days with what Bella accurately calls 'beer fear'.

The long weekend trip to Las Vegas had not been in my favour, and frankly, I was all but dragged by Bella and Lib amidst much complaining and whining. Still, when we had landed and my sights were overwhelmed with the brilliant lights that burned through the inky night, and when we drew back the blinds in the penthouse, greeting with the bustling view, I found myself rather pleased that I had been forced here. For longer than a moment, when we had been skimming through our outfit choices, styling our hair and accentuating our features with carefully applied makeup, I even found myself excited.

It is not very often I get an opportunity to step away from work; shadowing my father as he bores me with the monotonous tasks that come with running a business, one which I am heir to, and so a moment to relinquish such responsibilities suddenly felt much needed. A chance to have fun with my friends - drink and gamble responsibly - before having to return to the taxing lifestyle I have become accustomed to.

Perhaps that is why I found myself perched beside the rather attractive man that found great glee in winning fifty dollars on a game of blackjack. There was a way in which he carried himself - confident and slightly arrogant, yet somehow charming with a way to make even the hard face of the dealer crack with the ghosts of a grin - and so I could not help myself after encouraged by my girlfriends. Back home, I must maintain an air of professionalism and order, for I am watched and monitored incessantly, to what extent, I only realised less than a year ago. Each exchange recorded, every sentence heard, and so with the opportunity to speak to him without being scrutinised, I simply couldn't find a reason to refuse.

Clearly, I should have. As of this moment, I would find great pleasure in vomiting on my mother's expensive decor, or being subjected to the beer fear, because anything - anything! - is better than this.

A legal marriage.

The gummy ring was a cute gimmick at the time. Now, it is nothing but a mocking reminder of why I simply should not drink. Not ever. Not ever again.

The worst part of it - I cannot even contact him. Apparently, the exchanging of contact information did not seem very important when we were being sprinkled with confetti that came as an addition to the wedding package we opted for. No, apparently the photograph of this pivotal moment with an obnoxious stamp along the bottom that reads 'newlyweds' is all I need to remember this day. And remember it I will.

With a groan, one that very easily transformed into a miserable sob, I throw myself back on to my mattress, hands still tangled at the roots of my hair. What an idiot. Me, him, and the absolute buffoon who decided it would be a good idea to allow for two dreadfully intoxicated people tie the knot. Surely there should be regulations - there must be enough idiots who have made this mistake before. Idiots like me.

An idiot that now must find a way to contact this borderline stranger, a man that could live almost anywhere on this Earth, and suffer the process of annulment. That is hardly something I can hide - my records aren't something that remain private, and if somehow they do manage to remain out of the hands of the general public, I cannot exactly hide them from my parents. The lectures; I can already hear them.