Ten Petaled Rose

Chapter 8: Who?

When Paul finally woke, it was not in the a.m.

It was three o'clock by the time he rolled out of bed. Standing on unsteady feet, feeling the pounding of his head, and the after effects of his very first hangover. Groaning deeply at the headache that seemed to be radiating from behind his eyes and ears and everywhere else all at once. Glancing around the room without giving much thought as to how he'd gotten there. Not quite awake enough to tackle that issue yet. One at a time; and for now, pain took prevalence.

He didn't remember leaving; to go to the party -- in fact he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there to begin with. (He'd walked). Nor how he knew where to go once he'd set off. (He'd bumped into some bloke from his English class who'd given him directions).

Nor why he had gone, which was certain to slap him in the face by the time he stepped out into the hall. Glancing down either end, eyes lingering on what had once been his mother's sick room. Taking several minutes to adjust to the fact that she wasn't there anymore. Unable to convince himself of the truth, which he was in too much pain to devote any brain power to.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. Not the best idea, as it intensified the pain more than it diminished his tiredness. Noticing what had to be the most vomit he'd ever seen in the toilet beside him. Brows knit in confusion as he considered the soreness of his throat. Knowing it was his, though he didn't remember throwing up. He didn't -- well -- he didn't remember anything, really.

Had he walked home?

No, he couldn't have.

He remembered...someone else, but not who.

The list was small, however. He only really knew Ringo. And George, but he wasn't sure if either of them had attended. If they had, it was more likely George. Paul doubted Ringo knew where he lived. Combing his fingers through his hair while staring at his reflection, he did his damndest to remember. Narrowing his gaze at himself. Eyes lowering to the sweater he wore. Pawing at it curiously.

Whose was it? It was too big to be George's. Unless of course it belonged to his brother Peter, who was easily twice the boy's size.

He didn't recognize it though. Puzzled by the scent which he found eerily familiar, despite the fact that he couldn't put a name to it.

He put pause on that thought though, as he was absolutely dying of thirst. Careful as he tread down the stairs. Tempted to sit and scoot his way down, seeing as his depth perception was practically nonexistent, and his legs didn't seem to obey him as fluidly as they normally did.. Once on the ground floor, a quick glance around surmised that no one was home.

Grateful as he was for the solitude, it did not seem natural. Idly suspicious as he entered the kitchen. Chugging as much water as his stomach permitted, though it wouldn't do much for him until he'd absorbed it. Feeling heavy and overly tired, given just how late he'd slept in.

The front door opened, and Paul instinctively ducked behind the counter. Sudden gravity causing the world to spin all around him. Wonky cabinets turning unnaturally as wide and uncoordinated eyes swept back and forth across them. Divine craftsmanship absolutely lost to blurry eyes and a migraine the size of Buckingham. Weighed down, as he made a mental note not to do that again. Though he didn't expect he'd be suffering from another hangover any time soon.

"Paul." A voice called, not realizing how slow his instincts had been. It was his father, who'd watched as the boy dropped. Chewing on the inside of his lip, trying not to be irritated when Paul remained silent, as though confident that his presence had not yet been detected. Advancing slowly through the sitting room and into the kitchen. Rounding the counter, where Paul sat against the cabinets, holding his head.