Elysian Fields (A Kyman Fanfiction)

Chapter 7: Someone Must Get Hurt

My comatose sleep is interrupted by the incessant gurgling in my stomach, and I suddenly puke into a wire trash can, thoughtfully placed next to the bed I faintly recognize as not my own. I curl into the soft red comforter and wish away my head's splitting pain.

/\/\/\

The sun peeks through the splintered blinds and I blink my eyes open, not ready for the searing headache that followed. There's a fresh plastic water bottle on the nightstand with a sticky note that orders with a fluorescent pink flair, "drink!"

I oblige after shakily unscrewing the cap. I finally give my surroundings a once over, wondering what the fuck happened last night.

Cartman's room was even more a mess in the daylight. Iridescent spider webs traced the otherwise empty ceiling corners, the sprawling sticky notes and taped papers collabing a sky of exploding stars and sunsets of highlighters. There were small divots speckling every few inches of the faded green walls. One of his book piles had fallen over, the dirty floor a city, skyscrapers of newspapers and suburban sprawls of world history, with some blessings of literature and language thrown in.

I spot my scuffed combat boots carefully sorted with my duffle and clutch. There are no posters of naked women, just maps and models of guns, and a hand drawn meticulous sewer map with a jagged edge, probably ripped from a library book. There's a large calendar hanging on the door, covered in the same untidy Cartman writing marking the rest of the room, and I realize, on the gifted plastic water bottle.

The security camera hums above the closet, closing the aperture and zooming. I hear a pitiful meow; Mr Kitty is stretching out next to me on his favorite's bed, his grey belly confidently on show, judging me with one eye and sleeping with the other. Never being allowed a pet in my house, I'm nervous to extend a hand for fear of claws and teeth leaving sticky wet lines of blood. I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and sleep forever, but I cannot stay here.

I sit up in the bed, too quickly, and the nausea stirs in my belly. Still, I do not want to be in his bed, nor his room. I cannot think of a more uncomfortable place to wake up in. I attempt to stand, every movement haunting me with regretful, stupid moments of the night previous. I run my fingers through loose curls, trying to brush them out, and feel a colossal bump on the right side, throbbing and pulsating with every motion.

I realize I'm still in my very inappropriate black fishnet and black shorts, however I'm wearing my jacket. The camera follows me as I tiptoe toward the door, where the black clutch and duffle await.

Suddenly, the handle shakes and the door swings open, revealing the owner of the room. The hallway echoes with jolly voices traveling from downstairs. His hazel eyes catch my own and a grin breaks across his face.

"Lie down, Kahl," Cartman closes the door behind him, carrying a pill bottle in one hand and a flask of vodka in the other, like a figurine of justice for hangovers. He's wearing another of his never ending supply of black t shirts, this time with a spraypainted neon nuclear symbol. His large hairy feet poke out timidly from under the loose frayed jeans. He doesn't have to tell me twice, because I feel so shitty lying down is the only viable option.

I begrudgingly crawl back into his bed and groan into the creaky mattress. I hear a small something plop on the bed next to me and peer through my red curtain of hair, catching the sunlight and dully glowing like embers, to see my phone next to me.

"I texted your Jew mom," he says, winding between the piles of books and crumpled papers. He places the beer on the nightstand, and grabs the bottle of water, handing it to me.