Mature. Viewer Discretion is advised.
*The people inside of this work are FACE-CLAIMS. This has no correlation to any IRL individual.*
*This is messy plot. Made when I was a teen. Beware.*
The story of a young woman who finds her style, self worth...
"A final sleep no words from my cutting mouth to your ear or—taut wicked pinches from my fingers to your bitter face..." ♫ Katy Song by Red house painters.
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Duck slippers and boxing gloves.
That's what I woke up in.
I wasn't wearing anything else.
That wasn't the main cause for concern though, because Cher was somewhere in Damiano's house, screaming loud enough to make my already pounding ears bleed.
Believe it or not, it wasn't the first time I'd woken up to such a thing. In many motels' from here to New York, my alarm clock was banging and moans from Mikey or Niko's hotel room.
But, this set me off because it sure as fuck didn't sound good.
I jolted awake and upright off of the cold surface, I was on, only to realize it was a granite kitchen island and I was already falling off.
My coordination was already shitty, so I went splat onto the floor like a wet rag, awakening my hungover brain.
"Oh, fuck me..." I lifted my woozy head and Damiano's checkered print flooring made my brain spin. I could see bottles around me, and a... singular french fry on the floor, along with copious amounts of weed sprinkled about like fairy dust.
Flashbacks of Cher hitting a flamingo bong flooded my subconscious and I snickered, until my ears began to ring when she screamed again. "Augh." I slowly pulled myself up onto my feet and steadied myself against the counter, glancing at the mess that was surrounding me while I slept.
More weed, chocolate, and... is that a tattoo gun?
And why does my ass hurt?
"Help! Someone help me!"
"Cherry? Where are you?" I slurred as I yelled, pushing out of the room with a determined walk. I yanked off the boxing gloves and threw them to the floor.
The slippers 'quacked' with my every step.
I grunted in annoyance. But... I refused to take them off. They were quite comfortable. And his floors were freezing. The whole house was freezing. It was a miracle my dick wasn't blue.
"Cherry!" I grabbed the railing of his stairs and squeezed my eyes shut to shield them from the sunlight streaming in from the insurmountable amount of windows in Damiano's house, "O'my god, you have s... so many windows, this is madness--babyyyyyy! Where are you?"
"Harlow? Is that you?"
I reached the top of the steps and trailed the path to Damiano's bedroom. There were more Mcdonald's fries, more chocolate, and condoms; in the wrapper and out.
God knows what we used those for, it sure wasn't sex.
I shook the thought away and pushed into the bedroom, rubbing my head. I was trying to come to my senses and think but I still felt drunk, "Cher! Wh--"
