Confessions of a Workaholic

XIII.

Usually, it was her internal clock that woke her up. After years of waking up at four in the morning, her body was naturally in tune to rising before the crack of dawn. Today, it was the smell of coffee. The scent brought her back to life, relinquishing her unconscious mind. Yet, consciousness was the last thing she wanted. Everything felt heavy. From her eyelids to the tips of her toes, her body was actively working against her. Not to mention that her head was pounding, her mouth was dry, and she reeked of liquor. This was officially the worst morning of her life. It beat all the five am training sessions with her tennis coach during high school, the morning after the one-night stand with her Latin TA in college, and the one time she drank brown liquor on an empty stomach during a business dinner. This topped it all. Even breathing hurt. Ava groaned, as she opened her eyes. Just the slight movement of her eyelids drained her of the little energy she had. Thus, she closed her eyes, trying to muster up the strength to open them again.

She was lying on her stomach; her legs and arms sprawled across the massive queen bed, her head tilted to the right, and mouth slightly open. The position was comfortable, except for the droopy feeling in her limbs. She felt like she'd been run over by a truck several times over. The thought of getting out of bed was jarring, yet it was her thirst that pushed her eyelids to open. It was the smell of coffee that woke her up, but now it was the relentless need for water that motivated her to move. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a bottle of water resting on her bedside table. Now, she just had to get to it. Ava stretched her arms as far as they could go, suddenly regretting the size of her bed. "Uhhhh," she groaned, realizing that she needed to move closer. Ava closed her eyes again, visualizing herself drinking water. It was this thought that pushed her to move. Inch by inch, she crawled towards her bedside table, until her fingertips reached the edge of the bottle.

"I see you're finally awake."

Ava didn't have the energy to react to the voice. Instead, she gulped down the water. The liquid soothing her cotton mouth and relieving some of her grogginess. Her head was still pounding.

"There's also aspirin and coffee."

Sure enough, there was a bottle of Tylenol waiting for her. She opened the bottle, popping two tablets into her mouth, before drinking the rest of the water. Her body was trying to kill her, and it was her own doing. This was the worst hangover in the history of mankind. Right now, Ava was dreading being alive. Even sitting up on the bed hurt. She was never drinking again. No liquor. No wine. No alcohol. Never again. Her body couldn't handle another night like last night. She was officially too old for this shit.

Ava sighed, before reaching for the cup of coffee. The drink warmed her hands and awakened her senses. She was up, but nonfunctional.

"I'm glad to see that you're still alive."

She slowly turned towards the voice of her current guardian angel. Yet, it wasn't an angel that rescued her, but the devil herself. "Get out," Ava croaked, regaining the motors of her vocal chords.

Claire stopped knitting and looked up at Ava. She mulled the request over, as she assessed Ava's current state. "We can either rip the band aid now or later," she noted, before continuing to knit. "Since you are in no position to make a decision, I will make it for you – we are doing this now."

"I – "Ava began, before the rumbling in her stomach launched her out of bed and into the bathroom. She vomited everything out. The pounding in her head worsening, as a nauseous feeling flowed through her body. A second later and she was once again throwing up. This time, Claire held her hair back, as Ava emptied the contents of her stomach.

"There you go," Claire murmured, as she rubbed Ava's back. She grabbed a towel for her and helped her rest against the tub.

"I trusted you, and you took it from me," Ava finally spoke.