Beautifully Broken

Hungover and I Miss You

Ashley

"If you move again, I'll kill you," I grumble, pulling a pillow over my head to block out the light that assaults my eyes. My head pounds, the darkness behind my eyes pulsing, the slightest movement sends my body spinning. The inside of my mouth feels like I took a cheese grater to it, tongue like sandpaper against the torn skin.

Bert laughs, a water bottle sloshing somewhere to my right or maybe it's my left. I don't even remember coming back inside the hotel. Bert and I went to fetch more alcohol from the bus. I didn't think we even made it downstairs. My knee throbs, protesting the contact with the sheets. I definitely fell, but my memories are wiped clean. "Wait till your brother sees you. He'll cart your ass home so fast."

"Fuck you," I pry an arm off of my mattress, swinging it around in hopes of making contact with Bert. The sudden movement causes my stomach to flip, forcing me to give up my attempted assault. "Wrong sibling. I was addicted to heroine. Matt is the alcoholic. He's not going to do anything."

"One addiction fading into another or whatever philosophical bullshit he spouts," Bert chuckles, forcing my fingers around something that feels like a plastic bottle. "I promise its water. I ordered toast and pancakes and waffles. Carbs will help."

"Don't talk about food. I'll hurl."

"Better out than in," Cold fingers take hold of my leg, poking at my knee. I fight the urge to jerk it away, knowing that will only make the rolling in my stomach worse. "I'm going to find some ice for this. You hit that step harder than I thought. Drink that water."

I lay still until I hear the door click shut. Forcing my eyes open I drag in mouthfuls of air. Letting the breath out slowly through my nose, I let my body flop over. I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop swaying back and forth before dragging myself up into a sitting position. For a few agonizing seconds I'm certain I'm going to empty last nights partying onto the bed. Shoving my head between my knees, I slam my eyes shut, taking in deep breaths to the count of four. Four in. Four out. Again. Again. My stomach settles.

Shaking fingers work to twist off the water bottle cap. Plastic hits against chapped lips. Sit up. Tip the bottle back. Get rid of the dry, sticky feeling. I coach myself through each movement, trying to keep them slow and fluid. Don't jerk your head. Don't look at anything. Bottle to lips. Water to mouth. Swallow. Small sips. I pull the water through my teeth, swishing it around. I get through three rounds of my routine before there is a knock on the door.

"Room service."

"Just leave it at the door," I manage back, my voice cracking, vision beginning to swim again.

There's no way I can get through sound check. I'm going to have to cancel our recording session today. How could I be so stupid? I told Bert one beer. Why did I think it was a good idea to drink this much? I don't even know if I'll feel good enough to do the show tonight. God, I never wanted to be the band that cancels a show because I was too hungover to go on. How did I used to do shows when I was stoned all the time? I don't understand how anyone could want to feel this all the time. How did Matt wake up to this every morning? I guess you never get hungover if you don't ever really stop drinking.

The door swings open. Bert balances the breakfast tray against his hip, a plastic bag full of ice held in his other hand. He sets the tray down on the dresser, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Bert presses the ice to my knee, attempting to tie it in place with a shirt. "Good enough. Wanna try a piece of toast. I'll only judge you forever if you throw it back up."

"Oh well in that case, hand it over."

Bert sets a plate full of bread in between my legs; "Fall Out Boy is joining the tour tonight."