Blues

19. Blue Monday

"From the past until completion
They will turn away no more."
Blue Monday by New Order

Soft, languid melodies stir my head from an untroubled sleep, and for a moment, it feels like I'm dreaming. The velvet-like material under me doesn't feel familiar at all, and the pillow my head is engulfed in is unbosom, yet too snug to abandon. It feels like I'm being clobbered by a severe headache, but that doesn't ruin the amenity the plush luxury is gratifying me with. I move my hands up and down the softness of the heavenly surface I'm laying on, the way I did as I child as I laid on the sand, and for a moment, I go back, and let a huge dreamy beam take over my face. I move my head to the side to smell the rapturous smell of the snow, but instead, I'm hit by a familiar, yet offbeat smell. A smell that is even more heavenly and sensational than anything I've smelled in my whole life. A mixture of masculinity and ambrosial cleanliness, fused with a spicy fragrance.

I slowly open my eyes, and the first thing my eyes behold is a rectangular mirror, and it displays Yours Truly, laying on a four-poster that has white sheets swathing it. Panic slowly starts to materialize as my eyes slowly meander to survey my surroundings. A white cupboard, followed by a couch that is enshrouded by clothes and other things. Blisteringly, I swerve my head to observe the rest, and immediately regret it when the headache pummels me anew; however, I discover that the door of the room is unlocked and wide open, exhibiting white walls behind.

Why do I know those walls?

And then it hits, and I close my eyes, trying not to be convinced of what my memories are conveying, before I unhurriedly open my eyes to face the ineludible, looking down to see my clothes, fearful of what I may find, and suddenly, I find myself ready to go to the church I've never stepped a foot in, solely to thank God when I find that my clothes are still intact.

How I ended up here after yesterday's little party with Dylan, is beyond my delirious mind. I must have drank too much to remember. Only idiots don't learn lessons, and I should just consider renaming myself to induct a reminder for the following times. Like when someone asks me about my name, I'd just say “Idiot”, and when someone hollers to me, they'd call me IDIOT, and that would totally work to keep my logic static. I force myself to forsake the very hospitable bed, and leisurely, I walk out and follow the source of the music, which–of course–happens to be the painting room. I find the door open, so I don't even bother to knock.

I detect Dylan sitting in the middle, facing the door. He's too engrossed in the painting he's working on to even notice that I've entered the room. I grant myself the opportunity to stare at that unutterable magnificence of a guy, watching his confident posture and scrutinising his every aberrant move. He surprises me when he speaks, jolting me. “I hope you like what you see, because you won't like what I'm about to say.” He mutters, never shifting his eyes from the painting, before reaching out to substitute the brush with another.

I scratch the back of my neck in an uh-oh manner. “Was I that awful?”

He looks up, an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Don't remember, huh?” He asked. “Well, you should rest assured. Aside from making a scene, calling Melissa a slut and announcing that I slept with her, you did nothing.” He sardonically soothes me, before he goes back to focusing on the painting.

I grimace, slapping a hand against my forehead. “That's why I don't drink.”

He makes a tsking sound, squinting as he cautiously and leisurely traces the brush across the canvas. “And that's exactly why you shouldn't smoke weed again.” He lamely drops the bomb, as if it's the negligible thing in the world.

“WEED?” I shriek, slapping my hand over my mouth in sheer shock.

My outburst doesn't warp his expression a bit, as if it was foreseen. “Ding ding ding.”