The Fence || h. s.

8 || I Wish I Were Heather

I wrap the duvet tighter around my body, the aching in my skull drifting back and forth from the front to the back of my head like an electric current. My eyes open briefly to the room, bright with morning light since I've obviously forgotten to close the drapes in my drunken stupor last night. I squint, mouth dry with an unpleasant tequila aftertaste, and promptly retreat under the duvet with a moan. 

Hangover: no matter how many times it hits me like an avalanche, or whether I tell myself 'never again' afterwards or not, I always seem to get myself in the very same situation. 

I guess I'm a sucker for pain and punishment. Or, maybe, I'm just the typical golden child of Hollywood. 

Once the lurching in my stomach becomes impossible to bear, I get up on unsteady feet and wait for the room to cease its swaying before moving in the direction of the bathroom. Admittedly, I am a very experienced drinker despite my young age of twenty one, and the morning after rarely hits me that hard unless I mix different types of alcohol with weed or strong drugs. Which I'd definitely done last night, judging by my current state. 

The only bright point of the morning is the fact that I seem to have a clear recollection of my drunken antics: complete with my brief hook-up, having my purse stolen and promptly returned by my 'Fence' friend, and sadly, the aggravating encounter with Emil. The thought of him forcefully grabbing my hand as I tried to leave him comes to mind, and I drop to my knees, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. 

As I make my way back into the bedroom and pick up my phone, I am way too aware of my cracking headache to go through the various text messages littering my inbox, let alone answer any of them. Asa, Sally, Emil and one unknown number will have to wait for my attention until later. 

__________

Sunday is my day; that one day in the week that I allow myself to be away from everyone, even Georgette who's pretty much become my roommate despite us not sharing the same house. Sure, I still have my mandatory work out session or at least a run, but other than that, I pretty much laze around all day. 

However, all my non-plans are already being sent down the proverbial shitter, and that's not only due to the still present dull ache in my head. No, that's mostly because of my phone, once again lightning up on my nightstand, which I can't ignore any longer no matter how hard I try. 

Aggressively declining an incoming call from Emil, as well as ignoring the unhealthy amount of his texts, I then scroll through the remaining messages. There is a significant amount of angry questions from Sal, whom I'd left all alone last night; yet another step to fucking up our relationship for good. I cringe. There's also a very vague text from Asa, asking me whether I'm home, which I answer with a 'yes' and a question mark. However, the one message that truly captures my attention is the one from nine in the morning. 

Unknown Number: Looks like we had fun last night… H

I find myself smiling, arm draping around my eyes as I contemplate my answer. Heather is an attractive girl, one that's definitely not fooled by the illusion of Hollywood's glitz and glamour, which is something I find essential whenever choosing people to hang out with. I have no idea when or where she found a moment to snatch my phone and get my number, but she somehow had to since there's just no alternative. Sally would have never given out my personal information behind my back. 

Me: Why, are you up for a repeat performance, Heather? 

Feeling a smug sense of accomplishment, I move to set the phone aside with a full intention of napping some more, when it pings again in my hand.