rage • l.h

2. the morning after

The sound of the door slamming shut jerked me from my sleep.

My mind a jumbled mess and my stomach in knots, I felt as if I'd been through a hurricane. My head pounded, I didn't smell good, and my hair stuck to dry spit that lined my cheek.

Fuck.

Memories and flashes of my night fit themselves together like puzzle pieces in my mind. I fucked up. I had royally fucked up.

He didn't even know my name.

The puzzle ended on that mysterious yet kind stranger's bathroom floor. He didn't care about the hatred that spewed from my mouth. Or maybe we were both too drunk to see what was really happening.

Did I black out?

I rubbed my hands over my face as the hangover nausea hit me. I puked, once again, into the trash can conveniently set up next to me.

A bottle of advil and a lukewarm glass of water sat next to my bed on the floor, since I had no bedside table or nightstand of any kind. Another reminder of my inevitable job search this weekend so I could actually afford to decorate my half of the room.

A messy, handwritten note on a piece of notebook paper lay next to the now vomit-filled trash can.

i slept on your kitchen floor because i couldn't figure out the lock and felt weird leaving you here with an unlocked door to be kidnapped. also i had to look through your backpack for paper. also i would have helped you change into pajamas but i think you would have punched me. sorry abt the puke. see you in psychology, Cecelia Abdel ;)

I groaned loud enough for the entire hall to hear, and fell back against my balled up and ancient pillow. Shuffling around in the tiny kitchenette that came with the sad excuse of a 'suite' brought me out of my attempt at rest, and it was then that I realized suitcases and boxes scattered the other half of my room.

The embarrassment that I should be feeling finally hit me. Not only had I hooked up, or rather tried to hook up, with a drunk guy I met in a hallway, I puked in his toilet. As if that wasn't bad enough, I woke up in my own room looking like I got hit by a train while my roommate, who I'd yet to meet, had already been in and out.

I dragged myself out of bed, unzipping my jeans and ripping them off my body as if they were on fire, and surveyed the damage in the mirror.

Previously winged eyeliner caked in the creases of my eye while my lipgloss streaked across my face. My hair stood in all directions. I could thank my father for that, the tight ringlet curls that were impossible to tame and never not frizzy. Another thing he left me to deal with by myself.

And the cherry on top, the finishing touch to my look. A giant hickey and an even more obvious bite mark on my neck. If he weren't as hot, I'd be punching my bed and screaming into my pillow in frustration.

I slipped on pajama pants and made my way straight to the keurig, only to stop when I noticed a tear streaked, petite red-headed girl stocking the refrigerator.

Kombucha. Organic strawberries. All natural hummus. Protein shakes. Spinach. All separate from the root-beer and seven different brands of salsa that I'd put in there, as if my junk food would contaminate hers.

Upon noticing me, she immediately wiped her eyes, as if to pretend she hadn't been crying, and outstretched a hand.

"Hi, I'm Evie." she offered me her best fake smile and greeted me. If only she knew you don't owe anyone a smile, and I sure as hell didn't deserve it.

"Cece. Nice to meet you. Sorry about the..." I trailed off, unsure whether I should apologize for my appearance or the painfully obvious fact that I got messy drunk and was dealing with the aftermath. Sorry was an unfamiliar word to me, one I only reserved for my mom, but Evie looked so... kind.