[Warning: Descriptive talk of vomit. If you do not want to read, there will be a label in bold for when it's clear.
A/N- I apologize for not updating as frequently. My school is preparing for next semester by doing various tests and making sure the grades are what they need to be. I will try to write more frequently.]
The minute I woke up, I wanted to go back to bed. My head felt as if some Viking took his sword and stabbed it continuously into my head but for some reason I couldn't seem to die. My vision swirled around me, spinning and confusing me to the point my headac, - migraine, got worse. Closing my eyes didn't help. My stomach feel like all of my guts were sloshing around, matched with a burning throat. The smell of vomit was very present, as I look over the edge of my bed I see a bucket about half full of yellowish/grayish vomit. Even some on my bed where it trickled off from my side laying postion.
[No throw up past this point]
I picked myself up, looking around lazily. Avoiding any throw up, I crawl around and drag my body down the stairs. As I want to scream from the pain and suffering, my walk seems to grow three times it's original length. Once I finally reach the kitchen, and slump into a chair, the smell of food distracts me. Slightly peering from underneath my heavy lids, I see Papa in my mother's old pink "Kiss The Cook" apron. He was boiling, what appeared as noodles, dumping some cheddar cheese into it with some milk and butter and stiring as hard as possible. Once he was done, he transitioned it into a bowl and I saw the heavenly macaroni and cheese placed in front of me. As I look up, I see a surprisingly calm Papa.
"Eat up, macaroni and cheese is a good hangover food. Make sure to drink a lot of water and clean up your bedroom. I need to go to work, love you General." Papa says, sliding his apron off, setting it on the chair, and then kissing my forehead. A few moments later I hear the front door close and I groan.
Stabbing the fork into the macaroni, I shove the food into my mouth. The melted cheese makes me moan happily, it tastes like one of the best if not the best ever. I kept eating it, slowly to savor the taste even though my tongue felt burned from the heat. It was so worth it. About half way through, my poor mouth felt severely damaged, so I forced myself to stand.
My vision was shaky, I couldn't see well, but I inched my way to the counter. Slipping my hand in the cabinet, pulling a cup out and filling it with cool water. I gulped it down. Then drank another.
I went to move a strand of hair, and realized my mouth wasn't the only thing burning. Taking another glass of cool, beautiful water, I dumped it over my head. It rushed down my face, over my eyes, nose, lips. Traveling down my neck and soaking the top of the unfamiliar nightgown. I even felt a few surviving water droplets find a way to slip through my cleavage. Interesting feeling.
Instantly relaxing, I poured another, dumped, poured another to bring back to the table. Clutching the metal fork in my hands I begin to happily and slowly devour the meal my father placed for me. My headache began to whither away, still very painful but tolerable. The water helped. The last few bites were dreadful. I kept wishing if I turned, the bowl would fill again. So every two minutes I looked to the clock for 15 seconds then looked back disappointed.
10:39
Nothing.
10:41
Less.
10:42
Even less. Where did the food go?!
10:44
Barely any, my father wants me to starve.
10:46
Two bites? I coulda sworn it was four fifteen seconds ago!
10:48
Dear Diary, My rations are already surprisingly low. I've just begun the meal. When will Papa cook more?
10:50
It's gone. The fairy took it. I blame her.
10:52
I'm starving!?! I want more!
10:54
I would kill for a nice -
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.
The sound makes me crawl out of the chair, dragging myself to the body and creeping the door open eerily. It was the young mailman.
"I thought you delivered Mondays." My voice was raspy from almost no use in the past 24 hours, and it went lower than John Wayne's.
"I know ma'am. A certain fellow told me this must be delivered immediately!" He squeaked, holding a bright pink envelope between his fingers. Again, I saw him "check me out" as the popular girls say, but I couldn't care.
"Okay." I groaned, then took the letter from him. "Bu bye now."
Closing the door, I plop to the couch before moaning at the pain my head gave me. It had turned to a construction scene up there. Tiny cells and whatever the crap they are called breaking my skull with hammers, watching it crumble joyfully. One of the most ungodly things put on this Earth. Taking the pink envelope, the letters read Angel. Slipping my finger under the fold, I push up to tear it. Then my brain takes a second to process what I'm doing before I pull a crisp white sheet from the paper.
Dear Ms Angel,
It's Anastasie from last night at Dicken's Bar.
Pip, or Ace, really wanted to write you but I found it would probably be less 'embarrassing' so to speak, if I did.
Last night, you might not remember much, but Pip introduced you to the group. Myself, Will, and Madison. We all had shots of half-vodka and half-whiskey. He then gave you a beer, to keep you "hydrated". His words, not mine.
We soon discovered you are most definitely a lightweight, meaning you get drunk after barely any alcohol. I'm fairly confident this is due to the fact you haven't had much alcohol in your system before.
You started to get drunk as Pip left the table. I went to get some towels clean up Madison's vomit, and you took my vodka and chugged it. As you did you reached a very high level of drunkness, and a man under the name George Eacker attempted to take advantage of your intoxicated state.
Luckily, he failed and Ace went to save the day. Afterwards, you proceeded to puke for a few minutes outside the bar. Pip took you to his home and cleaned you up then forced his younger sister Angelica to undress and redress you in his mother's down.
Afterwards Angelica took you home.
I know this is probably embarrassing to you, I would be too. But we all make dumb mistakes and I've made plenty more dumb drunk mistakes than you. If you'd like to here some, my husband John and I's 5th anniversary is coming up on the 20th.
Feel free to join us at Madison Square Park, 3pm to 7pm.
No gifts required. The dress is nice but not fancy. I do hope you come.
- Anastasie Louise Pauline du Motier de La fayette Mulligan.
Reading her letter made blush, shoving my face in a pillow to hide the embarrassment.
Authors Note (again):
This Chapter is really just a filler chapter, it's of no real reverence to the story.
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