A Toast To You

Chapter Two

You're hurling your guts into the toilet bowl as soon as you've shot up from the bed. And you tore at the Tylenol and ate, at least, a pill, or three.

The hangover was writhing, so utterly painful that the headache was like a blade dragging against your brain, a slice that left blood sputtering and gushing. You felt like exploding, feeling a little lightheaded and weak, too.

Either elbows rested on the toilet seat while you hurled another time, and another for good measure, then you drank what was left of your water.

At least the water filled your empty stomach even if it pooled at the bottom.

You stood and flushed the toilet, wiping the side of your lip on a face towel and splashed some water on your weary face, rubbing your cheeks so gently as to lessen the might of the headache. A hole swallowed your stomach whole, a deep crevice that ached and sucked in the gut and leaving you gasping and heaving for just a sliver of air.

When lifting your chin all that fuzziness reached your head and left it leaning sideways, frontward. It's so heavy that your head's bobbing and wobbling and dragging itself down. And your eyes' been drooping, each eyelid fell on each other and what's a stirring in your stomach is all your guts turning.

Bile foamed and saliva dripped out down your chin. Your head's pounding and your heart's feeling, and what's bubbling in your stomach is bursting and popping all over. Sick, you're sick. A hand slipped to your abdomen and clutched hard, pressing down to relieve pressure from a tightening squeeze pulling at your stomach, and while this the other hand massaged the temple, rubbing in soothing circles.

The ache you felt from the throbbing head was nauseating, and not only that, but you could barely see the toilet seat. Your eyes were so blurry and the dizziness made maneuvering much harder, and the dryness of your throat scratched up your voice so hoarse and strangled, you could feel the insides of your throat peeling.

When you left the bathroom and plunged back into the sherbets and duvet, and stretched arms and legs across the mattress, it feels like another wasted day has gone by. Productive but wasted day, but even after drinking, you like to think back, even despite a pulsing migraine and despite the pills yet to kick in, and chew over yourself for getting tipsy.

'What happened? Had I fallen asleep in bed? Had I taken myself to bed?' The memories are blurry like a window after the eye of a storm, and so few memories returned to your mind you'd thought you were barely conscious at all.

Then your mouth spoke before your mind could compute its words. "Mr. Morose..?" You'd mumble subconsciously, nuzzling further into the pillow and burying yourself in the duvet. A figure tall as a redwood and a presence like a shadow and a familiar face.

The sun peaked in from eyelet curtains and rested on your cheek, then you turn the other cheek; your back to the window.

But after a second and a deep breath later, the memory was brushed off as a drunken ruse.

Silence was a beautiful thing and much needed, too. It still felt like your head was bashed and thrashed against a wall, not to mention, those pills were still yet to affect, so a stillness was the best comforter. The sun felt warm on your back.

But there was a noise, like a creak in the floor board and a shuffle. You lifted your head from the pillow, raising a brow with lazy eyes, and grimace.

Another shuffle.

"What..?" You croak, then the shuffling stopped, then the door creaked open, revealing the tallest man you've ever seen.

He blinked as he watched you scramble from your sheets and stand, grabbing a brush from your vanity and wielding it like a sword. "Who the hell are you?" You screamed with widened eyes and chucked the hairbrush before thinking. Your heart's beating against your ribcage and threatening to break from incarceration.