35 ᴍᴍ ꜰɪʟᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴇ I 🎀 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒸𝒾𝑒 𝒜𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓂𝓈 [𝑔𝓍𝑔] 🎀

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟎: 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 [𝐓𝐖]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 30 [ᴛᴡ]

The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the bedroom floor as Charlie lay curled in bed, her body trembling uncontrollably. The weight of the night before hung over her like a thick fog, pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to breathe. Her head throbbed with a pounding, incessant ache, and her stomach churned violently, threatening to empty what little remained from the whisky she had consumed.

Charlie groaned softly, pulling the sheets tighter around herself, hoping the fabric might somehow offer some form of protection from the world, from the pain that ravaged her. But the sheets were just as suffocating as the thoughts swirling in her head. She couldn't hide. Not anymore.

Her mouth was dry, and parched from the alcohol, and her limbs felt weak and useless. Every breath sent sharp pains through her chest, and her skin burnt with fever. She was ill—more ill than she had ever felt before. A different kind of sickness, one that wasn't just physical but deep, emotional, gnawing at her from the inside out.

She tried to sit up but was immediately hit with a wave of nausea so powerful that she had to force herself back down, clutching the sides of the bed as the room spun around her. The whisky, the stress, the exhaustion—all of it had caught up with her in one crushing blow.

Her body felt like it was betraying her, giving up after months of abuse and neglect. The world seemed to blur at the edges, her vision swimming as she tried to ground herself, but nothing worked. She was too far gone.

A knock at the bedroom door made her flinch. The sound sent a sharp jolt through her head, and she winced, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to steady her breathing.

"Charlie?" Kate's voice was cool, crisp, and unbothered as she knocked again, the sound more insistent this time. "Get up. We have a meeting in an hour."

Charlie didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat was dry, her lips cracked, and even the thought of speaking felt like too much. She pressed her face into the pillow, hoping Kate would leave her alone, but she knew better. Kate never left her alone.

The door opened with a sharp creak, and Charlie could feel Kate's presence fill the room like a storm cloud. She didn't have to look to know that Kate's eyes were narrowed in annoyance and that her lips were pressed into that familiar thin line of displeasure.

"Are you seriously still in bed?" Kate's voice cut through the fog like a knife, sharp and biting. "What the hell, Charlie? We're on a schedule."

Charlie swallowed, her throat tight and raw. She wanted to say something—anything—but the nausea hit her again, stronger this time, and she barely had time to roll over before she retched into the bucket she had placed beside the bed the night before. Her body convulsed as she emptied what little remained in her stomach, the taste of bile burning the back of her throat.

Kate stood at the door, watching with a mixture of irritation and disgust. "Oh, for God's sake," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Get yourself together."

Charlie wiped her mouth weakly with the back of her hand, her entire body shaking from the effort. She couldn't speak, couldn't move. Every muscle felt like it was on fire, and her head spun with dizziness. She tried to take a deep breath, but it only made her stomach churn again.

"I'm... I'm sick," Charlie managed to whisper, her voice barely audible.

"Sick?" Kate scoffed, stepping further into the room, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor. "You're not sick, Charlie. You're hungover because you drank yourself stupid last night. You did this to yourself."