Searching for a Perfect Day

Day 5 : Aftermath

Chapter 4: Sunday : Aftermath

She wakes up to cottonmouth, a steady thud in her right temple, and a combination of sickeningly sweet and bitter taste in the back of her throat. Only one word can suffice her currently muddled mind.

Hell…

She opens sleep bleary eyes, hates herself because the pounding has doubled from the sudden onslaught of filtered light and the need to simultaneously throw up and urinate is overwhelming. She stumbles none too gracefully out of bed, only a fraction of her mind alert enough to wonder how she got there—she definitely doesn't remember coming up in her own volition—and the rest of her mind tossing it in the unimportant for now bin. Jelly legs manage to navigate her to the direction of the hallway bathroom, her gaze falling upon a surprised and worried blonde as she opens the too heavy door of her own bedroom.

"Anna?"

It's not that she means to ignore the worried call, but the lump in her throat is making a comeback, and this one has nothing to do with unadulterated sadness or bereavement. A weak hand grips the cold wall for support, same jelly legs guiding her again to her destination. She doesn't answer back, but feels the strong body pull next to hers regardless, a firm hand clutching her waist, and her body automatically leans against that strong frame heavily without protest.

They make it to the bathroom and they don't even bother turning on the light. As soon as they cross the threshold and she's near enough to the toilet, she kneels down, forgets the weight of her seemingly heavy body, pulls the toilet seat back, grips the porcelain edges with both hands, and wretches.

Pizza toppings, cheese, the coke they used as a chaser and, of course, the main culprit…

Why does everything taste so disgusting coming back up?

She feels soft hands around her neck and shoulders gathering disarrayed hair up and out of the way as her back arches into another session and her stomach roils in protest, her esophagus and throat leaving bitter burn in their wake. The smell is rancid—enough to make her eyes water and her hands to shake uncontrollably. The grip she has on the cold, but at least clean (thank god) bowl only increases.

This. She wonders how people can stay as alcoholics when this…the day after…is the best deterrent in the world. A drinking buddy once told her that alcohol is borrowing happiness only to repay it with accrued interest the next day. No wiser words have been spoken then or since.

Oh god, why did they have to finish the whole bottle?

She hears a shuffle behind her, one hand leaving, but the other remaining around a bundle of her hair. She hears the faucet turn on just as another bout of nausea hits her and, after another moment, a glass of water appears as if magically in her line of sight.

"Gurgle and spit."

The command is quiet, but insistent, and she can't (doesn't) have the willpower to refuse let alone argue. A shaky hand grips the lukewarm glass and she knows she looks utterly pathetic and she hates it right now, but does exactly as her older sister has asked.

The water is a bit too warm and has an iron tang taste to it, but she doesn't complain. Instead, she splashes it as best as can around her mouth before spitting it back over the toilet, watching in sick fascination as all the colors coalesce almost…artistically. Elsa does both of them a favor and flushes it soon after.

She keeps her kneeling, haunched over position regardless of the throbbing her knees are starting to bleep out until she feels her stomach is done being overly dramatic.

"Ughhhh…" She was never one to be very articulate in the morning, and this specific one is not a normal one by any standard. She pushes off the toilet bowl and into the fiberglass tub, her heavy body thudding against it. The sudden jolt doesn't feel good, but she finds at least her knees aren't protesting anymore…and the tub feels mostly nice and cold amidst the heat stifling in her system even though it's hard and not very pliable against her bent back.