sweet creature [tayvis]

chapter three

November 1st, 2011.

I slowly wake up to the sun shining between my blinds, rendering my vision. I groan, rolling over on my back as I slap a hand over my eyes. How much did I drink last night? There's a raging pain that stabs all four quarters of my brain, piercing my eyes. I would rather sleep, but the contents in my stomach begin to rise up my esophagus, triggering me to jump up and sprint to the bathroom.

I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, gagging as my stomach rejects the liquor. Surely I hadn't had that much to drink last night, had I? It just kept on coming. My body was so sore, so tired, trembling with each heave I'd digested. The memories of last night are a blur. I don't even remember how I'd gotten home and safely into my bed and changed into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Somehow I did, and the fact that it was put behind me absolutely terrified me.

I'd thrown up at least four times now. My hair had gotten in the way of some of it. While most of it made it into the toilet, the rest of it ended up on me, which might've forced even more vomit out of me than necessary. Usually, I'd do everything to fight it off, but it'd happened so fast I wasn't given any time to react. Sweat dabbled across my forehead, my limbs quivering as I gasp air into my lungs.

Then, a click capers me out of my self pity, freezing as the presence of a familar figure sighs. Mom kneels next to me, side-eyeing me with disappointment. "How much did you have to drink last night, Taylor? Goddamn." She says, her tone taunting with worry. She reaches over my head, flushing the toilet before ripping a piece of paper towel off the roll and wipes the excess vomit off my chin.

"Enough to get my pussy absolutely torn," I remark.

As my mother furrows her eyebrows defensively, I immediately regret what I have said. Why the hell would I tell her this? True nonetheless, I don't want to have to explain myself to her. She tosses the paper into the toilet bowl, angrily.

"What did you say?" She tests.

"I don't remember," I say quickly. "Don't mind me, I'm just miserable."

Mom scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Get up, Taylor," she mumbles. Frustrated. She's frustrated. Mom and I had always been close - or two peas in a pod as Dave would say, my step-dad. We had all the patience in the world for one another. Mom was my built on best friend. Rarely had her and I fought, but when she was annoyed with me, she really was. And rightfully so.

"I'm not sure I can Mom," I mutter. "I think when I threw up, I took my body with me. I feel like a cloud of nothing." Physically and emotionally.

Mom roughly tugs on my bicep, pulling my up off the bathroom tiles and pinning me against the wall with an exasperated sigh. Damn, what did I do? "Mom, why are you mad at me?" I whine, flashing my eyes in her direction. She glares at me like I should know, but I don't. A flicker of irritation startles me, and my heart sinks. "What did I do, Mom?"

"You know what you did, Taylor." I do?

I shake my head, swallowing. Mom rarely ever gets bitter with me. Did I do something I didn't know about? "Mom, I don't."

"I don't agree with your choices, Miss Taylor."

My eyes widen, surprised. "You told me to go out!" I defend, raising my voice.

"Yeah, I did," she says. "I told you to go out, not get dangerously drink yourself to loss senses."

Well, that's true. "I didn't try to Mom, it just happened."

Mom cocks an eyebrow. "I don't care Taylor. I've been here all day cleaning up after you."

"You have?"