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I spend most of the day sleeping off my hangover. It’s late afternoon and I’m groggy – and grumpy – as fuck when I’m woken by my stomach protesting loudly at the abuse I’ve shown it in the last week. Namely, way too much alcohol and not enough good green food. Though in my defence, I do seem to remember picking all the green Skittles out of the packet with Steph at some point last week and throwing them at Jess because “green shit is good for you”. I mean, that’s practically eating vegetables, right? Maybe fruit at the very least? Were they apple flavoured or lime? Fuck knows.
I do know I wasn’t drunk enough to eat the orange ones though. Blurgh.
Speaking of drunk, how in the ever loving fuck did I get that wasted last night? And how the hell did I get home?
I blink a half dozen times until I can no longer hear my eyelids trying to unstick themselves and check that I am in fact in my own dorm room. My shoulders drop with relief when I see that I am.
My phone beeps and I squint at the screen around my still blurry-as-fuck vision. Why?
I have a message from an unknown number. How’s the head? I hit reply, saying that I’m dying. Dying and starving. And a response comes through instantly.
Unknown number: Wanna meet me for an early brinner? I know just the cure for ‘starving and dying’.
Me: What the fuck is brinner? And who is this?
Unknown Number: Ouch, you wound me, Odile Kemp. Have you forgotten your knight in shining armour so easily?
Oh fuck. Awareness slams back into me, and I lurch out of bed and into my bathroom. I just manage to drop my phone into the sink with a clatter before what little alcohol was left in my system makes a reappearance down the toilet along with bright yellow bile. No Skittles though.
When I’m done, I flush, scoop my phone out of the sink and rinse out my mouth. Then I brush my teeth for what feels like an hour, refilling the brush three times with more toothpaste, before cranking on the shower and trying to scald the memories of last night away.
Fuck. I witnessed…what did I witness? A murder? An execution? Payback? Housekeeping? Who the fuck were those men in the shadows and why they were they shooting people in the basement of a fucking church?
And what the hell was Hector doing there? Did he bring me home? I seem to recall being cradled against his chest and him telling me to sleep, but when did I give him my number?
The shower doesn’t wash away the memories but it does take care of the ick feeling lingering on my skin. I’m wrapped in a towel when I check my phone again.
Unknown number: Brinner is breakfast for dinner and it happens to be the world’s best hangover cure. It’ll also be ready in about twenty minutes, in flat 4A, if you’re not up to feeding yourself.
My stomach groans in appreciation at not having to wait for me to get my shit together and cook, so I quickly text back my acceptance. Maybe I can grill Hector on what the hell went down last night.
I check the other messages on my phone, all from the girls asking where I got to last night. Apparently I replied to them in the early hours of this morning that I had caught a taxi with some people on campus that I know because I had a migraine. I don’t remember sending that, and the message sure as hell doesn’t read like something I wrote, because I sure as fuck only know a handful of people, but at least I didn’t just disappear on my new friends and worry them.
I dry off, blast my hair with the dryer to take the edge off enough that I won’t catch pneumonia crossing campus now that the temperature has dropped, and pull on some comfy clothes. Black leggings and an oversized Deathfall High sports hoodie which used to belong to Zie. I didn’t keep it for nostalgic reasons – well maybe in the beginning I did – it just happens to be much more comfortable than any other jumper I own. I hate the way guys’ clothes are always so much more comfortable than girls’; like we don’t want items built for style and comfort too? I don’t bother with a bra, no one can tell under the hoodie anyway, and I put on some fluffy socks before pulling on my favourite boots and sliding my favourite blade into the side of my right boot.
The mirror shows a hungover, washed out, pale girl staring back at me. My eyes are wide and seem too large for my face, and my slightly damp hair just hangs straight around my face with zero effort. I look like a completely ordinary student. Good. This past week I’ve felt like one, and I’m not sure I'm ready for it to be over.
I grab my keys and my phone, slide them into the kangaroo pouch on my hoodie and leave my dorm.
Hector’s flat, 4A, is only a couple of blocks over from mine so it only takes a few minutes to walk there. Unlike my ground floor flat, Hector’s is on the second floor. I don’t have to worry about being buzzed into the block because someone is coming out as I arrive and he kindly holds the door open for me.
“Thanks,” I say, doing that awkward British half jog-skip move to speed up because I don’t want to keep him holding the door and waiting on me.
“No problem, Doe,” he replies with a wink.
He doesn’t look at all familiar, but he clearly knows who I am because there’s no doe insignia anywhere on my clothing. I do a double take as I pass him but he’s already on his way.
After last night’s weird almost panic-anxiety attack, I decide not to take the lift and head for the stairs instead. It’s only one floor anyway.
I regret that five minutes later when I’m panting at Hector’s door. What the hell is wrong with me? It shouldn’t take me that long or that much energy to walk up a single flight of stairs.
“Are you okay?” Hector peers down at me with concern etched on his handsome face.
“F-fine. Can I have some water please?”
“Of course, come in.” He steps back and invites me into his flat, which is a carbon copy of my own. I take the first right into the communal kitchen. Hector follows, grabs a clean glass from the draining rack and fills it from the cold tap before passing it to me. I down the glass before thanking him, my heart still racing.
“Thanks. Sorry. The stairs killed me.”
