What He Left Behind

Sixteen

When I wake the next morning, I ache all over and feel tired and irritable. How is it fair that I was probably the only person there that didn't drink and yet I still end up with a hangover? I suppose that's what I get for agreeing to go to that dumb party in the first place.

Wary that my mental health is volatile at the best of times, I know I need to kick myself into action to prevent falling into a bit of a slump after yesterday's events. Everything feels like it's taking twice as long as usual, which is a nuisance for someone like me who is impatient at the best of times. Miraculously, I drag myself out of bed and go for a run, only to go straight back to sleep as soon as I've got home and showered.

Thankfully my father is off work so it's his turn to play carer to my mother, whose condition has completely deteriorated once again. What that woman needs is some serious therapy and some medication aswell, but of course my parents' pride gets in the way. God forbid someone in my family face the shame and humiliation of contracting the completely valid and indiscriminate disease of depression.

It is gone four in the afternoon when I awaken from my rather long nap. I feel a lot better and am able to think rationally again, so I go over the events of the previous night. I don't know why I got so affected by it really. I knew Charlie would probably end up crawling into bed with someone, so I'm not sure why it came as a shock. I also knew he'd be drinking; it's a party. What more of an excuse does he need? He's an eighteen year old male. It would be more surprising if he didn't drink and have sex than if he did. I put my bizarre overreaction down to being overtired and perhaps a hint of jealousy, though I'd deny it if anyone asks. Everything seems worse when I'm lacking sleep. My thoughts get ahead of me and the slightest thing feels like the end of the world. But now, putting it in perspective, I realise nothing was really as bad as I thought it was.

Still in my sleeping shorts and camisole, I go downstairs, finding my parents sat at the kitchen table. I make awkward conversation with them for a few minutes, only to be interrupted by a phone call from a certain troublesome musician. I answer his call, going through to the living room and closing the door so my parents can't hear.

"Hey doll, can I come over? I need to talk to you." I get the feeling he is telling me rather than asking my permission.

"Can I meet you somewhere? My parents are here."

"Well I'm outside," he tells me and I sigh, glancing out the window to see his van indeed parked outside, Charlie bounding up the driveway. You wouldn't believe he spent all of last night drunk out of his mind.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I open the door.

"You are relentless you know," I muse. Judging by his messy hair and smudged eyeliner, I'd guess he hasn't long been up.

"Sorry sweetie, I just had to talk to you." It doesn't take him much time to register my attire, which I regret being so low-cut, for his gaze drops to my chest and lingers a little too long.

"Eyes up here thank you," I remind him, clicking my fingers next to my head. He smirks and flashes one of his mischievous grins.

"We can talk in my room cos my parents are home," I inform him, "But you've gotta be quiet." He agrees, following me up the stairs. As soon as I close the door to my room, he slides his arms around my waist, hugging me like a child hugs their sibling.

"You're not mad at me, are you? About last night?" he whines, even though he already knows the answer. I reckon that by now he must be aware of my weakness of never being able to stay mad at him.

"How could I be mad at someone who loves to invite themselves round my house at such inconvenient times?" I mutter dryly.

"You can't," he declares in the most innocent voice, planting a kiss on my neck and then another one on my jaw. I am aware of how dangerously close he is getting to my lips.