Elias Alizadeh, sixteen and a half

Ch 3: Oh no, I didn't...?

***

The next morning, the thing that made me return to the land of the living, were extremely annoying sounds that were shredding my eardrums and cutting through my brain like a chainsaw on a rampage.

My room was brightly lit up by sunlight and the rays sent sharp flashes of lightning through my head, definitely causing permanent injuries, I'm totally sure.

The fact that I obviously hadn't stripped any of my clothing before passing out, explained the sensation of waking up after a nap in a steam sauna - I was drenched in sweat .

The world seemed to be swaying a bit and my stomach churned when I was struggling to get up.

Hangover deluxe. (That figures.) And I fucking deserved it.

The escapades of last night, returned like a shitty rerun soapopera and the angst that belongs to a proper day-after, hit by full force.

No... nononononono...

I promised myself that I was going to go non-drinker. Join the Temperance movement (*1).

Go Straight Edge (*2). Whatev, as long as I never got wasted and made this kind of fool of myself, ever again.

I regretted just about everything that happened the night before (the stuff that I could even remember) and prayed to the almighty powers, whatever they might be, that I would never need to hear a word about any of it again.

Fat chance. I knew that I would hear it, over and over again, from my sweet friends who never lose the opportunity to make fun of the ones who actually give a shit about what they do when drunk.

The annoying sound was still ripping my poor brain into shreds and I realized that it was Mom using some kind of kitchen device on top speed.
Probably in order to make me unable to sleep, that wouldn't surprise me at all.

The door of my room, wide open, hinted the same thing. (I never leave it open.)

I guess I deserved that as well.

I very carefully got myself up to a sitting position and the numbers on my alarm clock told me that it was only ten past nine in the morning.
Mom had to be really pissed then, if she decided to torture me that early.

I kinda understood why, though...

Somehow, I got up and slowly made my way to the bathroom. The sight that met me in the mirror was no less that depressing.
I looked like something from Dawn of the Dead (*3) and felt even worse.
And there was vomit in my hair. Fucking yay.
With a sigh, I peeled off my less than clean clothes and threw them in the washing machine, since Mom would make me wash them myself anyway.
While the machine started, I dragged myself into the shower and the bliss of warm water.

Half an hour later, clean, clad and feeling at least somewhat better, I prepared myself for the impending trial in front of the almighty judge. (Mom.) But there really wasn't all that much to say to my defence, now was there? I figured I might as well just take the bull by its horns.

The machine (which turned out to be the kitchen aid) had stopped a long time ago and Mom was baking something by the kitchen counter.
When I snuck in, she lifted her head and gave me the death stare before pointing at the table with her chin. 

-"Sit."

At the table there was a pack of painkillers, a pitcher of water and a glass placed at where I usually sit.