The Storms Of August

Chapter Nine: My Youth Is Yours

I awoke in a weak darkness, a dull shade of black that failed at concealing the light behind it, while being cradled by a cold, hard object beneath me. I groggily moved my stiff limbs from their fetal position, stretching like a baby bird fresh out of its shell. I spread my wings slowly, as if ready for the world to come to me, and immediately regretted it. The bright lights of my surroundings sent me into a shock of sorts, leaving me hissing, squinting, and totally blind for a short period of time. When my sight came too, I felt like a piece of trash sitting in a Royal residence. Under the red and black plaid blanket that had been tossed over me, the dried mess of vomit was evident down my shirt and an empty bottle of amber rum sat with its cap missing at my feet in the elegant white clawfoot tub. Outside the wild piece of furniture, everything was a modification upon a modification. The grace of wealth and technology splattered across the canvas of the bathroom to leave it completely self absorbed in its own area of class. However, this wonder of a restroom kept it as a restroom none the less. Even with the towel heaters, sound system, and automated fixtures, this is still the place for shitting, bathing, and waking up with a demonic level of a hangover after a wild night.

Phase one of this abusive figure began not long after I first marveled at the sight of my surroundings. I felt the movement in my stomach like a rumbling chainsaw and grew uneasy at the substance that was bubbling up my throat. It was like when you fill a glass with tap water. The water flows out of the faucet and into the cup no problem until there is no room, at which point the new water plunges in and the old water pushes itself out of the cup to make way for whats coming. I fumbled my way out of the classic piece of furniture and stumbled quickly to the toilet, hanging my head over the lip of the seat at the exact moment my cup overflowed. Burning liquor set my throat ablaze as it reappeared into my view, losing all its appeal in the process. This faucet, as my bitching stomach shall be called, did not stop for twenty minutes. By the last call I had a mix of saliva and vomit dripping down my chin as I laid my cheek on the seat to recover. That only lasted a few seconds though, because I thought of what has been there and almost started throwing up again. I wiped the cold seat from my forehead and sighed, letting my heart rate slow down.

I was doing my best not to cry. Throwing up is not only painful, but it's a full on display of your insides on the outsides. It's disgusting, really. With this, I stick my entire head into one of the double sinks and let cold water wash over my mouth and chin on full blast. Afterwards, I used that water pressure to power wash my mouth between rounds of rubbing Crest into my teeth with my finger. When I was satisfied, I clogged the drain with a hand towel, removed my shirt, and used the empty bottle to weight it down in the mini lake I'd created.

I checked my phone as I exited the extravagant bathroom. It was two thirty in the morning. On the bright side, I didn't have to worry about anyone seeing me shirtless as I milled down the hallway with the high still making me slightly lightheaded. I grazed my finger tips along the wall beside me, moving in waves to avoid the treasured artificial memories. Every clumsy footfall resonated in my knee caps like a tiny buffalo was kicking them forward, yet I still had the floating head in space feeling. The one where you feel atoms touching atoms on your skin and your eyes feel pregnant, my heart was ready to high five my brain but I saw stairs coming and tamed their celebrations. I was still so afraid my mind would toss me down to ground level and considered sitting on my ass and scooting down one step at a time, everyone was too drunk to muster from their slumber anyway. I was at the top of the staircase, considering my options like they were flower arrangements, when I heard a light grunt on the other side of a partially closed door. With one palm pressed against the wood, the rectangle swung open on its hinges. Inside, I could see the outline of a shirtless Joe sprawled across a waterbed with dull green sheets. Disheveled hair on a befuddle stricken boy was fanning out in every direction as he slumbered into a hangover. He was a cute sleeper; nose nuzzled into the still tightly tucked sheets, lips out in a pout, and legs slightly bent as his partly closed fists sat close to his face. He slept like a baby with Pampers.