After the Party

01 | everythig is not ok

BLOOD AND GLITTER COAT MY FINGERTIPS.

Diamonds of Death, glinting in a din darkness, drug-fueled delusions of The Morning After. My brain foggy. My body throbbing. Blood. Glitter. Skin. I blink. I... blink. Nothing fading. Nothing disappearing or appearing. Unknown chaos de Halloween. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Spinning.

No, no. I'd been here.

My hands twist, a rusty blur, cut by butterfly lashes fluttering in a blind panic, and I barely hear myself: a whimper unravels somewhere deep in my throat, rips at my vocal chords violently.

I scream.

Everything is wrong, vibrating. Blood. Darkness blots my vision. It's all a vague haze of hyperventilating, drunk, disorderly, bumbling bullshit I'd sworn I wouldn't stoop to again. My coordination fucked by a pounding drum behind my forehead, cymbals clashing, aching pangs, stiffness in my joints—undoubtedly, hopelessly, sickeningly hungover again.

Jesus, why? Where am I?

Acid spills to my lips. Bile crawls up as I sit... up. My fingers falling to a pleated skirt I remember putting on, its soft fabric crusted in dry blood, frayed edges; a slit up my thigh, road-ripped fishnets; skin scuffed gravelly, grimy. I... I'd probably fallen.

I'd learned to guess. I'd relinquished responsibility of myself. When I wake up disoriented and dizzy, belching Modelo, reeking of Newports. Menthols. I want to crawl inside myself, curl up, understand it: Who'd you fuck? What'd you do? Where'd you go? Where are you? Who are you? What are you doing?

A shower liner draping down, damp, foggy, moldy, plastic on my bare legs. I fumble, grasping, wincing. Fuck. My knees and elbows burn, an uncomfortably hot flash, rubbed raw, knobbing around in a dirty bathtub. My foot is asleep. Boots squeaking as I hoist myself up. A fuzzy spell boomerangs, and I loll, groaning lowly as I yank; a trinketing of rings popping and plastic crinkling down quietly.

Light pours in from a bulb overhead, head-achingly blazing, a bright flash in my bleary vision. Pang. Ow. I wince again, rearing away, blinking it off, adjusting to a barren, barely lit bathroom. Everything is diluted-dark. My head swims as I steady myself.

Silence.

Where...

Nausea wracks my gaze skittishly. Alone. Tags. It's a brimming onslaught of graffiti, a skirt I'd vaguely loved—hitched up, dirty, bloody, glitter clinging to reddish-brown hues—and I don't know where the fuck I am. Harlem? Red Hook? Jersey?

Panic spikes in a delay. Knots in my chest cinching. No. No. I'm lagging. I'm hyperventilating again, hiccuping, jarringly off, as I buckle halfheartedly. My bloody palm print on the lip of a porcelain bathtub, elbow jackknifing as if I'd been burned; a sticky stamp is smudged on the top of my hand. Darkness skews. Everything slurs. I pull back, curling my fingers into fists, and I—

I draw a ragged breath at the feeling the feeling the fucking feeling of lukewarm liquid pooling into crevices, flakes crusting under my fingernails. Hesitantly, I let myself look again: a blurry, light pink hue of rosé glitter glinting, grotesquely brown-bloody—

What did I do?

"Here's to a weird and wild Halloween!"

Precipices cutting off—shot glasses clinking, Cardi B blasting, cloudy, smoky, dusky, passing Betty, coughing it out, half-burned cigarettes, salt, tequila, lime and Guillermo—before I'd left with June for...