Chapter Nine

The first thing I notice is the pounding in my head. Not just a normal not drunk enough water today headache, a full on thousand neurons screaming what the fuck have you done to us overwhelming explosion of agony. When I was eight I had a migraine that was so painful I thought my bones were swelling inside my body and eventually they’d get too big for my skin and pop it like an overstretched balloon but even that was nothing compared to what I’m currently experiencing. I have barely enough energy to open my eyes, let alone even think about doing anything apart from trying desperately not to die.

It’s day, I know that, even before I’ve somehow gained the courage to look. Day where and when I still have no idea. For a long while, longer than I’m happy to admit, I wonder how exactly I’ve ended up here, in this position, with this amount of excruciating pain, before it all comes flooding back to me, in gloriously uncensored detail, like water gushing through a crack in a dam.

The stepladder, the shots, the pipe packed full of super strength weed, Donkey. Fuck. I have a vague sensation of telling them something, of being with them, of doing something I shouldn’t and then an equally strong sensation of generalised guilt or remorse unattached to any kind of specific memory at all. I have the feeling I’ve done something hugely embarrassing, without even remembering what that thing might be. Whatever it is, though, I’m absolutely convinced that it won’t be good.

I’ll face that when I can, I’ll have to, of course, but right now, I have to work out where I am and how the hell I get out of here and back to normality. Initially, I just presume I’m at home, but when I dare myself to look, I realize I’m somewhere else entirely.

I think I know this place, but the memory seems so distant I doubt I actually really do. Perhaps there’s a fragment of this scene from last night that entered my subconscious, or the whole hangover thing is just fucking with my perception. I’m alone, I know that. I also know that this isn’t Marcy’s house, unless she’s recently redesigned, and it isn’t the hospital or the police station which is seriously good news.

I’m on a bed, with a towel underneath me (not such good news), and thankfully I’m still wearing clothes.

I don’t think I’ve been sick, although I can’t exactly be sure. I certainly feel like I want to be now. If I move my eyes too quickly from one side of my face to the other a wave of nausea rapidly descends on me, so God knows what will happen when I finally have to move the rest of my body for real.

I also know that the longer I leave it, the harder it’s going to be. I need to work out where I am, sort myself out, get home and explain to my parents that I’m not dead or missing and I haven’t turned into an alcoholic, and then bury my head for the rest of the summer and hope everyone has the common decency to forget all about what might have happened in the swimming pool, around the beer pong table or out in the garden when everyone was looking.

I don’t feel good at all. Mentally, physically, spiritually, my body and soul feel like they’ve been crushed up into tiny pieces and put back together again incorrectly. I’m never drinking again. Shots, slammers, depth charges or buckets. My short lived life as a drinker has come to an abrupt end. And fuck smoking. Who’s idea was that anyway?

Just thinking about it all isn’t helping, nor is trying to work out where I am or how I got here without better clues. If my memory isn’t going to help, the best I can do is force myself out of bed to get a good look at this room or at least the view from the window, before I dare myself out of the door, and as quickly as possible out of whoever’s house this is from the nearest exit.

There is a good possibility I’m still at Alex’s house, and while I take deep breaths to prepare myself to move, I clutch desperately onto the notion that somewhere inside my brain, as long as I look hard enough, will be a memory of me calling my parents, telling them I’m staying over with Marcy before bidding everyone good night and making my way up the stairs without embarrassing myself any further to this room and falling asleep like a good little princess. Yeah, right.

My mouth feels like sandpaper. I rake my tongue over my teeth and retch at the sensation. I start with my fingers, and make fists with my right hand, before attempting to lift it and bend my arm at the elbow. So far so good. The pain in my head is so intense it might make me pass out, but at least it doesn’t seem like it’s getting any worse. When I’ve convinced myself I’m probably not going to die, I roll onto my back and stretch out my legs.

The lampshade is a novelty one I’ve definitely seen before but can’t place. It’s an oversized, slightly rounded football, made out of wire mesh and thin brown paper, and could equally as easily belong to a TV programme or film as it could my own memory banks. I blink up at it trying to work out how to focus without the room spinning gradually, but after less than half a minute I realize I can’t.

Again, I quietly chastise myself for ending up in this position. I bet Marcy isn’t struggling with a hangover right now. I bet she’s downstairs still going strong, or outside in the pool with a guy on each arm. I bet no-one else feels like I do, least of all Donkey.

It’ll just be my luck that Donkey got so turned off by my performance last night that they decided to shack up with someone else. They could all be in the room next door, doing exactly what it is that I’ve been dreaming about doing to them ever since I was dirty enough to imagine it.

The compulsion to find out is more of an encouragement to move than the need to get back home, and suddenly filled with jealous thoughts I manage to grit my teeth and pull myself up into a seated position.

Honestly, anyone would think I’ve just been in a car crash, or I’m recovering slowly from a serious accident, or a fall. The fact I’ve actually brought this on myself, with little other than cheap alcohol and even cheaper drugs is a little bit embarrassing.

I’ll repent when I’ve got the energy. I’ll go straight and never sway from the path again, just as soon as I figure out how to make myself normal.

I take another deep breath and swing my legs out over the side of the bed, quickly enough that I don't change my mind half-way through, melt back into the bed and wait like a fossil to be discovered.

When I get to the window I can confirm beyond any doubt I’m still at Alex’s house. When I get up, I can find some water, some pain killers, some salvation. I can begin my journey into obscurity and anonymity, never once needing to prove anything again.

The thought makes my whole body shudder. What the hell was I doing stripping down to my panties and bra and throwing myself off a stepladder diving board? That’s not me at all. The last thing I want to do is make people believe I’m somehow capable of doing things I’m clearly not able to.

Window, deep breath, door, deep breath, stairs, deep breath, exit, home. The walk will do me good. Fresh air will sober me up. Marcy will cover for me if I need her to. Maybe I did call my parents after all, I just don’t remember it. Maybe I’m panicking about nothing, hangovers make people paranoid after all. Maybe whatever I think I did last night I didn’t do at all, and maybe there was someone else even drunker, even more outrageously behaved than I was, and right now they are talking about her and have forgotten completely about me.

It takes me two attempts to stand. On the first attempt, I seem to have forgotten how to coordinate myself. When my brain sends a message to my knees, they rebel, wobble wildly and refuse to bear my weight. After a pause, a brief consultation and a warning of consequences for failure to comply, they do their best and seem willing if not to work as normal, to promise not to give up so easily and collapse under my weight.

It is like that, stagger-walking, shivering and trembling, trying desperately not to puke, my eyes squinting against the brain-melting light, my head tilted to one side awkwardly where I’ve slept against my neck in an inadvisable position, I finally make it to the window.

It takes a while for the outside to come into focus, even longer for my brain to process it.

It’s... it can’t be. I blink and blink again, hoping somehow my brain is tricking me, but the view is the same. This is my view from my window, but it can’t possibly be because this room isn’t in my house. I look back into the room, twisting my whole body at once because my neck won’t work on it’s own, take in the set-up, the furniture, the decorations and the football posters and then turn back again to the window, something akin to absolute panic suddenly seeping into me.

Fuck.

“Hey”, says a voice from behind me, and it scares me so much I can’t help but scream.