Turning Point [ONC 2022]

02. Apologies & Warm Welcomes

Bloody hell.

Wine is evil. Pure and utter evil. I hate it with a fiery, burning passion that makes me sick to my stomach.

Or maybe that's actually the hangover talking.

This. This is why I don't have wine more often. My mouth is as dry as the Kalahari, my hands are clammy and my stomach is currently doing cartwheels. A thin layer of sweat covers my entire body, making me feel cold in the warm room.

I groan, pulling my duvet back over my head and allowing the cool pillow to comfort my throbbing temple. The worst part is, I don't even have any one to bring me coffee. If I want some, I have to put on my big girl panties and crawl my way into the kitchen to make it myself.

Hangover days never used to be so lonely and depressing. Rhett could handle his alcohol better than me, and he would bring me coffee and scrambled eggs in bed before joining me under the covers, snuggling up to me and kissing the pain in my head away.

I miss him.

Before I can stop it, a lone tear makes its way down my cheek.

Nope. No, no, no. No.

Not today. Not when I'm this fragile. I can only deal with one unpleasant thing at a time and right now, the nausea is preferable to the painful memories of the man I loved. I poke my head out of the blanket and glance at the clock on my bedside table. It's rude, red digits inform me that it's ten past one in the afternoon.

Crap.

Another day wasted. The whole morning is gone and I have nothing to show for it, except a pounding head and horrific breath. I should be working, trying to catch up on my quota. I should be taking advantage of the fact that it's mercifully quiet for the first time in days.

Wait.

I pause, listening carefully for any sign of life from the apartment across the hall. It's silent; no tell-tale screaming blasting through the speakers, no guitar solos or pounding drum rifts. Just sweet, blissful silence.

Not that I'm complaining, but why is it so quiet?

A revelation hits me like the cold shower I so desperately need. Another memory starts to surface, this one more recent and a thousand times more mortifying. Did I really go over to the new neighbors place last night? The words 'lady', 'horse shit' and 'ashamed' seem to register in my brain. I close my eyes, willing my little rant to be some horrendous, wine induced nightmare.

Oh no, I didn't. Please tell me I didn't.

But the shame that coils in the pit of my stomach won't disperse and it leads me to believe that I did, in fact, have a good go at 3B yesterday. I don't remember ever feeling this embarrassed. I can't even appreciate the silence because it's come at the hefty price of my dignity.

Oh God. I threatened to murder her.

Talk about a warm welcome. That poor girl probably thinks she lives across the hall from a raving lunatic who sits alone drinking wine on Wednesday afternoons and shouts at people for having crap taste in music. What was I thinking?

I need to go apologize right now. It's her home and she should be allowed to listen to whatever she wants. Even if it is horse shit. Maybe we can come to a compromise with the volume. If she could just turn it down to a more humane level, I'm sure we can all cohabitate in peace. That's assuming she can look past my red wine rampage.

I throw off my duvet, getting a good whiff of myself as I do so. The smell that rolls off me is a combination of rotten grapes and stale sweat that makes my stomach heave again. Definitely not a scent I want to inflict on others, no matter how annoying and inconsiderate they are.