The Boy Next Door

Chapter Twenty-One

My eyes flickered, trying to open, but the light forced them shut. "Urgh," I said, covering my head with my hands, trying to rub away the ache. What did I do to deserve this headache? I thought. But then I suddenly remembered everything. From the minute I snuck out to the minute I saw stars, "Fuck," I shouted, instantly widening my eyes and sitting upright.

I brushed my hands through my dried-up, tangled hair and along my chest. I was still wearing the black mesh top I went out in and my flares. "Flowers, lilac flowers," I said, stroking the duvet covering me, "How did I get back here?"

Catching and releasing my lungs, I tried to figure out how I got home. I couldn't have possibly walked, and I wouldn't have called a taxi, would I? My mind was so foggy. The confusion arose warmth under my tingling skin, and my stomach turned a million miles per hour. All of a sudden, my cheeks flushed, and I heaved, "Urgh," I gagged.

Shoving the quilt back, I ran to my bathroom with my hand holding my mouth. I puked my guts up all over the toilet and in it. Its colourful design spreading over my floor wasn't looking as delicious as it tasted. Its grim taste burnt my insides more than when I was swallowing it.

"Oh god," I mumbled, cradling my aching head as I sat on my knees. My every nerve twinged like they were having their own party beneath my skin, except it hurt.

Every inch of my body hurt.

I took a deep breath and used the sink to guide me up; my muscles trembled, and nausea rose again, making my stomach tense, "Urgh." I spewed, crying as my sink got the artwork whilst my hands clung tightly to the rim.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, joining the sweat on my face. The aroma pulled my stomach, making every second of it worse, and vomit soaked my hair. I needed to clean up before Mum saw the rainbow-coloured massacre painting my bathroom. But seeing as I was home, I could assume she and Dad were fully aware of last night's antics. I was surprised they hadn't barged in the minute I made a noise.

Slowly standing upright, I gazed into the mirror; I looked like shit. I wiped my face and shook my head in dismay, holding my aching tummy before running the taps to rinse the sink. I used an entire toilet paper roll to wipe up as much as possible, flushing it all down.

Fumbling through the cabinet draws, I found a pack of face wipes and used them to clean the white ceramic, hoping it would smell a little nicer. It didn't. So I poured hand wash down the loo before flushing it.

Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I slowly stripped my clothes off, trying not to pain my tortured body. I didn't remember feeling this rough before; how was it so different? Why would anyone choose to drink if this was how it made them feel? Never again, I told myself.

Pulling open the shower door, I climbed in, preparing myself. I usually loved my power shower, but not then. It hit me full force, washing away every scent of alcopops, sick, pizza, and cigarette smoke.

I stood under the tepid water for as long as it numbed my body and appreciated the silence. Though the buzzing in my ears was another reminder of what was to come the minute I faced my parents. I tried to relax. I washed my hair and soaped my body gently, worried I'd be showering in vomit if I brushed too hard in its fragile state.

Climbing out, I took my nightgown from the back of the bathroom door, wrapped myself in it, and brushed my hair and teeth. I was soaked, but the idea of drying myself was too draining. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, I looked back at myself; I looked a little better, though my pale-coloured face told me I was in for a rough day. And when I opened the door back into my bedroom, seeing Mum and Dad sitting on my bed, it was about to get worse.

Here we go, I thought.

Their faces were sketched with blank expressions, not looking half as angry as I had anticipated, "I'm sorry," I tried through gritted teeth.