Snapping Point

31.

The living room lay in disarray, permeated with the scent of sex and liquor. Sofas were haphazardly rearranged, designed with scattered cigarettes. My favorite seaside frame lay on the floor, its glass shattered into pieces.

Navigating past the debris, I made my way to the kitchen and found Greg sprawled out on the counter, completely out of it. His pants hung below his waist, belt dangling from the counter.

I had missed the wild party, or something else entirely. Sometimes they reveled in inviting women and just losing their bloody senses under drugs and alcohol.

Upon returning home with Joanna yesterday, I had ignored the party and retreated straight to my room, locking myself in. I had shed a few tears, stared at Romano's number, and let thoughts of him consume me until I drifted off to sleep. My fascination with him had taken a dangerous turn. Previously, it had been harmless to entertain thoughts of him, but now, I couldn't do so without feeling a pang of guilt for betraying those closest to me.

I really hoped for a healthy day today, but what I could already see told me that hope was a dream for the weak. An uncertainty that I couldn't keep fraternizing with.

The entire IP, with the exception of myself, had clearly indulged in a night of debauchery, drinking, smoking, and partying until dawn. If they weren't snorting coke, handling stacks of cash, or engaging in intimate encounters with the women at the bordello under Ivan's control, then they were up to something equally reckless.

A woman with pink strands delicately woven into her jet-black hair was hunched over the sink, retching as she expelled the alcohol from her gut, likely feeling the effects of her excesses. She continued to gag and struggle with the faucet.

Did they derive pleasure from seeing themselves in such states? I couldn't fathom why they drank to excess, only to end up saddling others with the task of cleaning up their mess and managing their lives.

After careful consideration, I opted to ignore the scene unfolding before me instead of offering assistance to the woman at the sink. I held my nose closed and turned towards the fridge, the stench alone enough to induce a similar choking sensation. I decided to keep my distance.

I retrieved a jug of milkshake and the leftover cupcakes from a box I spotted, noting that they must have been celebrating something—why else would there be cake? Perhaps a birthday or Joanna's return? It was likely the reason Greg had left me behind, eager to join in on the festivities.

Placing the box on the clean side of the counter away from Greg's prone form, I took a seat and glanced over at the woman. She had finished vomiting and now stood, leaning weakly against the cabinet, a wet hand over her forehead as she panted.

Headaches, nausea, disorientation. Ha! I couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

"What are you, a prude?" Her gaze was hostile, likely because I hadn't rushed to the aid of a hungover woman or because I covered my nose while eating amidst the stench. There always seemed to be something that prompted someone to label me a prude. Disgusting.

I forced down a bite of cake and glanced over at her, taking note of her scant clothing choice. "And you?" I retorted, my gaze hardening on the flimsy fabric barely covering her breasts. "What are you, a whore?"

"Okay, you're not just a prude, you're an arse." She crossed her arms over her chest and began to approach me. Taking a seat next to mine, she reached for a chunk of cake without asking.

I wasn't in the mood to start a fight over breakfast with this imbecile, so I allowed her to eat. I even poured her a glass of water before returning to my seat.

Irrespective of her current appearance, she was a nice-looking woman with very sexy lips, though tired eyes rested on her heavy-looking head. Downing another gulp of milkshake, I adjusted the top I was wearing to sit properly on me. It happened to be Joanna's top; we often shared clothes, but hers always seemed to give me a headache from their tightness or exposure.