Lighter

t w e n t y

i lose my voice when i look at you,
can't make a noise though i'm trying t o . . .

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I haven't experienced many hangovers in my life. I mean true, deathly, borderline-zombie-state hangovers. What I thought was classified as a "hangover" in high school was just waking up the next day with little to no sleep after drinking too much alcohol that my teenage body could handle at the time, since the substance was so new.

Well, I was proven very wrong the morning after my twenty-first birthday.

When I finally became conscious, I couldn't move. Even opening my eyes seemed like it'd be too much of a struggle. I didn't think it was possible for me to feel so shitty when it had nothing to do with 1. my anxiety or 2. a nightmare. But a disastrous hangover changed that thought real quick.

I didn't know what to expect of the bar last night. After all, the only thing I could go by were scenes in movies, and I never really planned on going into one. Maybe here and there, but it wasn't something on my bucket list. That changed due to my friends making plans without my knowledge, thus forcing me to go to a bar to celebrate my birthday.

On the edge of town was a bar called Skipper's – a small, dark place where people from areas all around came on the weekends to get cheap drinks and listen to good music. For a Wednesday night, I was surprised at how busy it was when the four of us got there at half past ten o'clock. Apparently, that was the appropriate time to get to a bar, or so I've been told by my friends.

Cheyenne bought the two of us drinks since I had no clue how a bar worked, what I liked, or how to even order. The thought of the whole process made my heart rate spike, but thankfully it didn't last due to my brazen best friend being a nightlife connoisseur. She got something that was in a tall skinny glass, claiming that I'd enjoy it. When the fruity sensation hit my taste buds, I knew she was right.

After that, everything gets fuzzy. I'm guessing that's why it felt like death came over me this morning.

For awhile I laid there in my bed, somewhat awake but not bothering to open my eyes or move my body. Cheyenne was sound asleep beside me, since I could feel her presence but she was awfully quiet. I couldn't pinpoint what time it was, but it had to have been early for Cheyenne to still be sleeping. No matter how late she stays up, she always gets up early. The girl has been a hardcore morning person since birth and nothing could change that.

When I heard Cheyenne let out a lengthy sigh, I did the same. There was no point in me trying to catch some more shut-eye, my body rejecting the idea since I'd been pointlessly lying in my bed for God knows how long. It took every ounce of strength in me to turn over and open my eyes.

If I didn't think this brutal hangover was a rude awakening, then waking up to someone who was clearly not Cheyenne sleeping next to me certainly fell under that category.

I stared at Ronnie, unable to take my eyes away from him while hundreds of questions flooded my hazy mind. Every part of me tensed up, wondering where Cheyenne was, when I got home, how Ronnie got in my bed, and what the fuck to do to get rid of this spinning feeling. Luckily, I wasn't waiting that long for some answers because Ronnie soon stirred, coming out of his peaceful, unconscious state. If I wasn't so anxious about not remembering my night, I would have sat there and watched him sleep all day.

"Oh." Ronnie sort of flinched when he focused on me, laughing a bit. "Good morning."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," I chuckled too.