The (After) Life Of The Party...

Woah, Where Did The Party Go?

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, where will you go
I'm going where the cold wind blows - Nirvana, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?"

I woke up sprawled on the floor. Rays of sunshine streaked through the curtain and sweet birdsong was my alarm clock.
I tried to sit up, but the killer punch of a headache hit me and I collapsed again. Last night was fuzzy. I must of misplaced my shirt, because it was stained with something sticky, curled up in a ball in the corner. Things get crazily good when I'm high. It took a minute to remember that I was in Mikey's house, and I must have passed out. Then I remembered my conversation with him.

I decided my best chance of getting out without confrontation was to sneak out the front door. What's the time? Could I have slept the whole day? It wouldn't be the first time.

I put on a t-shirt I found in the wardrobe (it smelt like his) and slowly stepped out onto the landing. The whole house was silent. "Maybe he's gone out." I thought. "But then it must be really late because no one goes out in the morning after a late party, do they?" This was why I didn't host parties. Who wants to wake up with a guy like me in their house?

Scared in case he was still there, I tried to step lightly and tiptoed down the stairs. His house was dark; half the blinds were drawn and there was empty beer bottles and who knows what else scattered all over the downstairs hallway. He must have been too tired to clean up last night. He was still in the house.

Nearly. At. The. Door.

If I could leave, I would go home, shower, dress and probably try to forget the events of last night. This usually involved procrastinating and staring at the ceiling of my room, sprawled on the bed. Only that tended to lead to overthinking, and like I have already mentioned, we don't want to do that.

There was nothing wrong with thinking in general, but when I overthought it tended to lead to irrational things being asked like, "why am I here?" And "who is actually going to miss me if I go?" Then I sink into what I call: A Meeting With Mr Low. AMWML. He's almost like my frenemy. He keeps my ego from popping, but at the same time he threatens my sanity.

I was at the door, and I yanked down on the wooden handle. It didn't budge.
"Shit."

There was a rustling sound behind me.
I turned round inhaling sharply.
"Hello?" No answer. My eyes skin around the room for a face. No. Don't be stupid Pete there's nothing/ no one there.

Through a blaze of grey shades I remembered the back door. Maybe that one wasn't locked. I headed that way, through the living room. I passed a green couch. There was a couple making out there. The clock on the mantelpiece reads 10:30am. That answers my question then. I am rather impressed by the size of the T.V; must of cost a fortune. As I got to the kitchen, I stopped. Dead.

The thing that made me stop dead was the noise. Drip, drip, drip. Like a tap. The kitchen tap. But it didn't sound like water. A sense of unease swept over me and a cold sweat ran down between my shoulder blades. It wasn't possible. I peered round the corner in dismay. No one was home. It wasn't possible and it wasn't real.

Yet, there was Mikey in the kitchen, a knife in his back and surrounded by a pool of his own blood, his glasses missing.

Drip, drip, drip...