Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

This Love

Sometimes when you woke up after a night of heavy drinking you felt wonderful. There was no raging headache or debilitating nausea. There was only a feeling of euphoria. What you don't immediately realize was there's a catch. There's always a catch.

There was a reason you felt amazing, and that reason was because you were still drunk. The hangover that was likely going to kill you was simply toying with you, lulling you into a false sense of security, waiting for the right time to strike.

This was not one of those times.

Prying my face off the floor was no small task. My body ached, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls. If I could move my arms I'd cradle my pounding head. It felt like an elephant was doing the merengue directly on my cerebellum while singing a show tune at the top of their lungs. To add insult to what felt like very serious injury the sunlight streaming through the blinds was searing my corneas causing what was left of my brain to bleed out through my ears. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my blurry, watery eyes. My stomach swam, bile bubbling in my parched throat, but I swallowed it down with a pain filled groan.

Deadpool was on the floor to my right, sprawled on her back, a cup still perched upright in her hand. Carol was passed out on the couch, half her body hanging over the edge, knuckles dragging on the floor. Maggie was curled up on the window seat, face plastered against the glass, drool slowly dripping down the pane, her heavy panting fogging up the glass. Francine was somehow curled up on the coffee table that was much too small for such an accomplishment, snoring so loud it was likely to shatter the window Maggie was using as a pillow. Tara and Denise were curled around each other in front of the fireplace, both covered in mud, dirt, and...glitter? Sasha was sitting at the kitchen island, face down, arms limp at her side, surrounded by a beer can pyramid. Apocalypse Barbie was in the hallway bathroom, body curled around the toilet. She was naked save her pale, pink bra and panties. Beth was on my other side, still blissfully unconscious, a homemade, bedazzled, glittery tiara sitting perched atop her blonde head.

What in the actual fuck?

The living room reminded me of the morning after in the movie The Hangover. There were bottles quite literally everywhere. I even spotted one perched on the fancy chandelier hanging overhead. There were empty cans of food covering the coffee table, and for some inexplicable reason there were feathers all over the floor.

The furniture had clearly been rearranged, a couch blocking the stairs, and all the kitchen chairs save the one Sasha was sleeping in stacked up like a fort, but I was at a loss as to why. There were three knives embedded in the wall beside the fireplace, a crude circle drawn in marker around the weapons complete with almost illegible numbers.

All we were missing was a jungle cat in the bathroom.

Bits and pieces of last night floated through my stuffy mind. Beth's was getting married, tonight. We'd decided to send her into married life with a proper bachelorette party. I'd promised Rick a relatively low-key night free from debauchery. Something told me bullet holes in the sofa wasn't low-key.

"Morning."

I grabbed my head in my hands, letting my forehead rest against the cool, wood floor. I took a slow, deep breath, eyes squeezed shut as I tried to ride out the urge to puke on Rick's high heels. Why was the room spinning and how did I get off the ride?

"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry, not even a little. He knelt next to me, Nugget in his arms, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Not feeling so good?"

I ignored the question because the answer was obvious. "How bad?"