College Ruled

forty-two

42
________

I WAKE TO NOISE.

       The distant trill of water pokes through my foggy brain first. It's annoying enough to make me groan, my temples pulsing wildly against my skull, and I shove over onto my back on the bathroom tile.

        The water grows louder, flowing faster now, but it isn't until an accompanying hum pierces the air that my eyes finally snap open.

      I lurch upright, squinting against the light.

I'm in the bathroom.

      Someone's in the bathroom with me.

And they're...

      "Chester," I grumble, my voice barely more than a pained croak. "What the hell are you doing?"

       "Morning, Clarke," Chase chirps. He pulls his toothbrush from his mouth and spits into the toilet bowl at his knees. "Taking a piss." He shrugs. Sticks his toothbrush back between his teeth. "Other bathrooms are occupied. Had to go."

       Gross.

      His voice stabs into my eye sockets, piercing like a jagged blade. I wince around a groan and fight the violent urge to shove his head into the toilet he's standing in front of.

      "You're a fucking idiot."

      Chase spits again and tosses his toothbrush onto the sink. "Oh how lovely you are in the morning."

      I scrunch my nose at his back as he shakes, zips up his jeans, and flushes the toilet. Not bothering to wash his hands, he sweeps out of the room, flinging an absentminded middle finger my way as he goes.

Now alone, it becomes clear that the toilet is trying to kill me. The swish of the flush overextends, water jerking against the white bowl, and I think I actually feel the sound of it in my back molars. It stabs into my jaw, into my cheekbones and my temples, until I have to physically stop myself from drowning myself in the toilet just to stop the noise.

It feels, quite literally, like I'm dying. No—

No—sorry—that's not accurate. It feels as if I am dead. As if Hell is not merely a place but instead a body, a mind trapped inside bones that are too tired and blood that's much too thin and eyes that are so, so dry.

        Hell is a body that remembers last night.

       The drinking. The sobbing. Grayson.

       If he didn't think me a disastrous mess before surely now he does.

       Groaning, I shove myself off the floor and take a swig of mouthwash from the boys' stash, washing the taste of death from my teeth. Wesley's shirt hangs loose on my shoulders, my wine-stained blouse now discarded and folded on the edge of the bathtub.

I look as shitty as I feel. The underside of my eyes appear as if they're bruised, exhaustion smeared right into my skin. And my hair—