Villains ➵ bill skarsgård a.u.

forty one

A faint throbbing in my head awakens me back to reality, hot flashes of pain surging through my stomach, distracting me from whatever peace I was having before it. I turn to my side, ignoring the chills running down my spine and the cold sweat trickling down my neck, on the full intent of going back to numbness. I didn't get back to sleep, the mattress pressing on my skin turning into cold rocks as the pain spread like a drill was burrowing itself into my skull, my esophagus folding in on itself the longer I laid there. My mind screams at me to do something, my eyes flashing open in panic, trying to collect myself for some kind of grip. Red fabric. My lips pressed themselves shut, vomit forcing itself out of my throat, spilling onto my tongue. I scurry to my feet, the thought of swallowing it back in adding to the nausea.

Barely out of slumber, I hurtle to the nearest bathroom door-looking entrance, throwing myself over the toilet and letting myself go. I retched and retched, a mixture of sour beef and white stuff I couldn't figure out what pumping out of my stomach. Right there and then, bent over the fucking bowl is when it finally registers, my senses coming back to life whilst I puke my insides out and held onto the rims for dear life, the taste of acid and liquor even stronger on my tastebuds, a permanent wince curved on my face. It would probably be too late to regret everything now, especially when I can't even fathom where I am, but it was hard not to hurt myself as tears trickled dow my cheeks. I throw up until there was absolutely nothing left, gagging still even if there wasn't anything coming out, the toilet water swimming in my filth.

Wiping off the excess puke from my mouth, I let myself fall on the tiles, leaning on the mouth for support otherwise I was going to lay down the bathroom floor. I scan my surroundings for the first time since I got up, bright white walls blinding my eyes as the toilet reeked with the scent of my vomit. My stomach wasn't slicing itself in half anymore, nonetheless, the whole thing did no mercy to my headache as the room rocked back and forth, the white light a shade of red from my eyes. I catch my breath, gathering all the decent thoughts that would cross my subconscious for any comprehensible explanation to what I was doing there. I've felt this somewhere before, mostly in mornings after inebriated nights, disregarding all the concern I have left for whatever situation would welcome me in the next day. So whenever it happens, I'm always pretty sure I deserved the beating no matter the context.

Something catches the corner of my eye, bare feet standing by the door, my head perking up to see who it is; Georgie towering underneath the frame, arms crossed, wearing a blue t-shirt and pajamas. "Dude, who hurt you?" She uttered, her voice bouncing off the walls of the bathroom.

Only then did it come back to me, the night before; The fight in the cafeteria, Georgie's suspension because of Ericka blackmailing Mr. Lawrence into losing his job and then Jumper's suggestion to rave which brought all of us to shoot coke into our bloodstream. Including Arthur. I throw my head back, closing my eyes to take everything in. I've experienced worse nights, but there was just something about this one which bothered me to my bones.

Georgie helps me up from the floor, opening up the tap for me to wash off the remains of vomit still stuck on my chin and mouth, the mirror displaying a disaster. Bags discolored under my eyes, my lips chapped and dry, my hair a frizzy mess on either side of my shoulders. She remains standing in the corner, watching me through both our reflection as I splash water on my face. "How do you feel?" She mumbles, popping open the door to their medicine cabinet.

"My head's about to fucking explode." I wheezed, taking a handful of water and holding it close to my skin.

"You're not the first person who said that today. Here." She says, handing over a prescription bottle of painkillers. I look at her for a moment, her freckles unconcealed by foundation, the cuts from Ericka's scratches still there, her hair held up by a messy bun. No more were the traces of anger she had for me three weeks ago when she found out about Arthur. We were okay. Back to normal, and I didn't have to fight myself from texting her anymore and asking Jumper if she was alright. It was like I lost her for the duration we didn't talk, and this was the first time I was seeing her again. I take bottle from her grasp, popping in three tablets all at once and crouching down to let the running water pour into my mouth.