As Drunk As Chloé ONC 2024

Vodka: One

It’s the sound of a loud engine that wakes Chloé up. Faint light peeks through her sloppily shut curtains, brushing light against her bare skin tangled in sweat drenched sheets. She traces the noise to be coming from outside, a distinct bustle of footsteps and heavy load grinding along the tarmac. Right, today is garbage day.

At her first attempt to move, a head-splitting ache spikes her skull, forcing out a wince. A bitter taste tinges the corner of her chapped lips as she tries to swallow, throat as dry as sandpaper.

She carefully rolls onto her stomach, her insides lurching so intensely, she fears her guts had just spewed out. Stiffly, she lowers her eyes downwards. All still intact. Good, good.

It's been a little over a year since Chloé had let herself go drinking with no restraints. After graduating, a vow was made to her parents that there would be no clubbing or parties until she got herself a job. As of yesterday, she'd no longer be one of the several interns kissing up to superiors at Brighid Pharmaceutical but a full-time assistant kissing up, earning a salary.

That alone had her practically sprinting to the first bar she could find. As memories resurfaced, Chloé vaguely recalls buying several rounds of drinks for a Canadian or possibly German couple that were celebrating their anniversary. They shared some laughs and dances… and—

Chloé sneaks another glance down to her body. Her bra and loose fitting jeans are still on, no hickeys and no other bodies are cuddled on the mattress beside her. Okay, nothing further than that then. Relief floods that there’s been no repeat of 2011 where a few too many cocktails ended a seven year long relationship.

She sluggishly pulls herself to her feet and despite the blurring edges, she manages to reach for the bottom drawer by her nightstand. She rifles through bras and panties mixed with chocolate wrappers to retrieve the aspirin and bottle of water stashed away at the corner, exactly where its been kept ever since moving in to the dingy one-bedroom apartment for this very occasion. Truthfully, the moment has fallen a little flat due to how god-awful it feels just to sit up straight.

Perhaps her body is getting too old for this lifestyle. No longer did that perky blonde with oceanic, Bambi eyes greet her in the mirror following the night of a raving house party. Years of pre-med have burnt out the spark and now her blue eyes sink, rarely dilated without caffeine. Her mother’s genes had started taking over during her second year and wrung out all her golden locks from her dad to be dipped in a deep, coffee brown.

On a brighter note, she notes from the view from her vanity mirror there are no traces of hives breaking out on her neck, which is new. It had been a bizarre reaction to alcohol, whether big or small intakes that every doctor they went to couldn’t explain but assured isn’t a health risk. Thus, invoking her collection of turtle necks throughout her school years. Ah, good times.

She carefully slips in two tablets and takes a large gulp to swallow it in one go. Then immediately jerks forward, spitting everything out.

A vile taste crawls on her tongue as it flaps out with faced scrunched to the oddly distinct burning along her tonsils. Befuddled, she brings the bottle closer to inspect it with eyes squinting. She grasps inkings of a marker pen squiggled across spelling out; Happy Drinking! :)

The handwriting is one she’d recognised anywhere— Selina. And then it all clicks. A certain conniving cow had swapped out her water for vodka. Groaning aloud, Chloé discards the sabotaged bottle and sprints into the bathroom to douse out the poison.

Once the rooms start looking less blurry, Chloé finds herself growing an appetite for pancakes and steers towards her kitchenette. Only, to stumble on something in the process. On her carpeted floor lay several, shiny shopping bags. Instantly, another memory surfaces of her calling her parents at the bar. They’re more than ecstatic and then her dad proclaims the achievement is enough for her to be awarded before payday.

‘You should be dressed sharp for your first day, Bruce saved up to buy that new suit when he joined a firm. But it'll be on me this time, alright?’ Then he added in a whisper, 'Just don’t tell your brother.’

Chloé, through tipsy giggles, had happily accepted. Sadly, Chloé's had a few cocktails by then and is only coherent enough to fluently keep up a conversation for a good ten minutes. After five, the call is over and with the shopping funds wired, there’s nothing to stop her from deciding right there and then to hit the stores.

Damn you, cocktails, Chloé quietly hisses to herself and braces for what’s to come. She seizes her phone to open up her account balance. As the screen pulls out a string of digits, her heart rate rises.

By some miracle, the digits aren’t all zeroes. However, one of them is missing since the last time she checked and the others are a lot smaller. She curses her dumb drunk ass for a moment before deciding to see the level of collateral damage done.

She picks up the closest bag, the fragrant perfume exuding from it just reeks of high end brands. That drunk bitch certainly liked her things pricey. Must’ve been the snooty French woman suppressed inside her. Chloé fishes out the blouses and skirts that alone will cost half a year’s worth of her salary, though impressed a little that despite being utterly wasted, her taste was still on point.

She decides to model in them before a painful trip down the returns aisle and it’s as she empties the last bag, her fingers graze something odd. Instead of soft, chic material like silk or chiffon, she feels something cold and metallic. Her brows furrow deeper the more she frantically gropes around, cog in her head whirring to place an image until she caves, wrenching it out.

As the bright light of day casts a silvery gleam against its polished, smooth frame, Chloé feels her blood run cold. Her eyes wide, mouth agape in disbelief to the sight of none other than a gun.