Style // 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

8.

Sunday

The world's strongest hang over can distract me from what happened yesterday. Actually, I've changed my mind. The world's most expensive hang over can distract me from what happened last night. Considering how much Charles paid for those bottles, you'd think they'd come without the consequences the next morning.

I'm paralysed all over. If I stay still enough, the pounding headache subsides. If I move, the fucking thing comes back like a violent boomerang with a life-long vendetta against me. I've been led in the same position for hours, watching the dazzling winter sun gradually light up swaying room. The only noise comes from the gentle breeze sneaking through the ajar window, gracefully swishing the curtains around, and my still breathing.

Despite the hangover, a sense of pride washes over me. I didn't stay the night with Charles, as much as he made it tempting. Breaking the tradition feels empowering, I'm creating new ways to start our untimely relationship. My fingertips touch the bedding beneath me, embracing the comfort of my own sheets. At least I can move my fingers without triggering the boomerang of a hangover. If Stella wasn't so against Charles and I, I'd boast about not sleeping in his bed. But, even if she was supportive of it, I couldn't tell her away, because she didn't come home last night! No calls, no texts, the only way I found out she was safe was a text from her chair side nurse- Sofia- saying she's gone home with a man ! A man !

Last night plays over and over in my head like a stuck record. The whole place being set up like a date, how long I spent there, Charles' amorous attempt to get me to stay. Our flirtatious humour alongside the occasional digs at our past decisions. Ignoring the alcohol, something else took over us last night. Hunger for our old routines, thirsty to return to the past. He was so subtle with everything, every touch, every move, every word. Yet, it felt like he had pounced. Those last moments, that all started off with an accident stumbled felt like time stood still.

I stretch my arms above my head, pushing against the headboard. I regret lifting my arms as the blood rushes up my body and into my head. A groan wriggles its way out as nausea sweeps away the stuck record of last night. I thought alcohol was meant to make you dozy, and sleep longer. Harder. I haven't slept a wink, and my mouth is irritatingly dry considering how much champagne I drank. I drag myself up and out of bed, moving like a corpse with arthritis. If I was in a cartoon movie, each ligament would be snapping and cracking into place. Once I'm on my feet, I thank the lord for making me a light sleeper after drinking rather than a serial vomiter. I'll happily trade in sleep for throwing up alcohol that's been stewing in my stomach all night long.

As I pass my mirror, my reflection makes me second guess my ability to not throw up after drinking. I look vile, like a savage cretin that's snuck onto Earth. My hair is a mess, like I've been electrocuted. The residue of mascara under my eyes emphasises the eye bags. A hard scowl as I mock my own reflection, judging how she looks when I'm the one responsible for it. I'm pale, puffy, there's swollen patches on my face. I've seen drivers come out of crashes looking better than this.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I curse myself for forgetting to put it on charge last night, clearly collapsing into bed with a face full of make up was my top priority. I stagger over to the bed, plopping down too quickly for my head to keep up. The screen ignites as I lift it up; a text message from Charles. I wanted it to be Stella, so I can get highlights from her night out. Well, to see who this guy she went home with is. Regardless, I swipe open the text.

Charles
Morning

Me
Morning
How's your head?

Charles has to be hungover. We drank the same amount, topping up our glasses the second the last droplet is gone. I know, that's a dangerous game, but who am I to turn down €360 worth of champagne, twice ?