the winking moon

hungover

A beer bottle tipping off the nightstand and striking against the hardwood floor with a dull thud was what woke Olive up. She scraped the back of her hand against her eyes, already feeling the regrets of last night flooding her body.

A hangover.

She sat up and raked a hand through the mess of her hair, surveying the mess in her bedroom with a grimacing yawn. Her mother hadn't been home, and she certainly didn't drink beer or smoke enough weed to stain the walls with its musky scent. Her feet hit the icy hardwood floor with an audible wince. It felt like her head was being split open, and her eyes seemed to drip down her cheeks. She reached for her face, feeling something smudge.

Oh, that's just mascara.

Olive reached for a few items on her nightstand, sticking a spliff between her lips and cupping the weak flame of her lighter up against her mouth. Most people would have frowned at this, smoking before eight am.

Someone stirred in the corner of her room, splayed out like a starfish on the old beanbag Olive never seemed to use.

She didn't really mind all that much, it was nice to have company the morning after a party.

Olive took another drag off the blunt and tucked it into the corner of her mouth as she stood to pull a nightgown over her head. At least she wouldn't be walking around her house high and naked.

She bent down and plucked a few empty bottles off the floor, dancing on tiptoes around solo cups and puddles of ominous-looking liquids.

Clink-clink. Beer bottles knocking together, creating a dissonant little tune on their way to the trash bin.

The kitchen was worse than her bedroom, and Olive didn't even want to think about the state of the living room.

She took another hit, leaning up against the knife drawer. One, two, three. Olive counted heartbeats in her chest, watching the slow bloom of sunlight across the linoleum tile. Four, five, six. Another drag.

Olive lived her life like this, between moments of debauched joy and the aftermath of it all. It wasn't so bad, she would consider herself lucky to have substances to turn to and a mother who was gone too often to notice the gradual destruction of the house she paid so much for.

A yawn caught her attention, a tired-looking boy with a very accurate penis drawn on his forehead in lipstick. He seemed to be following the smell of weed, and very quickly Olive realized it was the resident of the beanbag approaching.

"Good morning." Her first two words were spoken of the day.

He spooked. And then replied with a toothy grin. A gap in his front teeth.

"Not really."

Olive held the blunt out to him, which he refused.

"I shouldn't smoke this early."

Olive offered it to him again, smiling despite herself. "Who's telling you not to?"

The boy shrugged helplessly at this and received the spliff graciously, holding it up to his mouth and sipping from it like it was a fine wine.

She couldn't help but smile again.

And there they stood, in the gentle warmth of sunlight coming in through the kitchen windows.

In comfortable silence.

Almost.

"You're Olive Hirst, aren't you?" The boy was showing that gap in his teeth again, leaving Olive teetering between annoyance and a strange sort of affection. Like the kind you'd experience seeing a dog at the park.