AT LAST, I COULD BREATHE | billy hargrove

a day off.

chapter song: American Teen - Khalid

a day off.

I suppose if I were to fault myself for anything major, it would have to be my drinking. I was sure I wasn't an addict because I could go for extended times without any alcohol, and I certainly didn't think it was necessary for my life.

However, the version of alcoholism I possess is the kind that only comes out when I have a taste of any beverage with even a slight amount of alcohol in it. I really only drink at parties or if shit's going sideways in life, and parties are the only times that I actually drink myself away. One taste of alcohol at a party and it sends a message to my brain that it's GO TIME and I simply don't stop until I blackout—which is fine with party-me and drunk-me and nighttime-me but is most definitely NOT fine with morning-me. Because morning-me has to deal with the aftermath of the night previous.

Hangovers are the worst. I'll say it again. Hangovers. Are. The. WORST.

Now, a normal hangover isn't too bad: you can muscle through it with some aspirin and a shit ton of water and greasy food. But a hangover after a blackout is a-whole-nother story.

My head pounded. I could physically feel the arteries and veins inside my cranium pulsating against my temples—the sound of my heartbeat louder than the cars outside passing the house. Aspirin couldn't save me now. The traces of an obscenely pungent taste on my tongue told me I most likely vomited at some point during that night. While I noticed this, I silently hoped to God it was into a toilet or sink.

Apart from the physical pain, the strain of a blackout hangover seeps into your mind and prevents any and all recollection of events during the said night before, so all you're left with is a strange assortment of vague flashes of people and alcohol with a whole lotta fuzziness in between.

Luckily, I hadn't pregamed, so I remembered arriving at the party with a co-sober, Steve Harrington. I figured my best bet to solve the small mystery at hand was to have him enlighten me and piece together the exact happenings.

This sounded great to me, except for one thing. It was a fucking Thursday and I had goddamn school. That meant dealing with unbearable people for an unbearable time slot of about six hours with my unbearable hangover. Not likely.

I couldn't just skip school—I mean, I could, I'd done it before, but I didn't want to explain to my mum exactly why I skipped. So I'd have to go.

It was just beginning to reach the time of the year when the air is crisp and chilly in the mornings and the blankets that were warmed from all of the body heat seem like the place to stay for eternity. My top sheet had been pushed down to the foot-end of my mattress, so my sweatpant-covered legs were wrapped in the fluffy blanket underneath the grey comforter that covered my bed. The air in my room hadn't been heated by the central air system in my home yet, so it was quite cold outside my seven-layered-dip of blankets, biting my nose a bit to my discomfort.

Reluctantly, I shifted in my bed and slipped out of the blankets, which proved to be a mistake quickly. The immediate and impending feeling of vomit creeping up my throat forced me to sprint to the bathroom down the hall, covering my mouth with my hands until I reached the toilet and let go. Retching has to be one of the worst things to ever grace human nature—such a violent and indignifying action that brings even the toughest men to their knees (literally).

There wasn't much left in my stomach from the night before apparently since all I was throwing up was water and maybe a little bit of leftover beer. But I continued to dry heave against my will, and I don't care for that shit at all.