As Sin

morning after

He should have died ten times over.

Nausea forced him out of sleep, swelling from his stomach up to his mouth. He nearly tumbled to the ground from barreling to the toilet with his eyes still closed. The apartment echoed with the sounds of him crashing through the bathroom door, slamming the toilet seat open, and puking his stomach contents out. His mouth and throat burned so terribly from the straight acid exiting his body that he wished really was dead.

It didn't help that he was overcome with a killer headache as soon as he got himself to stop retching. His brain threatened to burst out of his skull. An image of it splattering all over the bathroom tiles brought him some relief. He slumped against the toilet bowl. He wasn't dead, but he was certainly in Hell.

A knock sounded against the door. He wasn't sure why, since it was wide open. He forced himself to his knees to flush the toilet before collapsing onto the floor. Of all the bathroom floors he had found himself on over the years, this wasn't so bad. No shit, piss or mysterious substances anywhere. He could lie on there for a while.

"I'm not looking," came the voice outside the bathroom. "Do you need some water?"

He stared at the ceiling. There was a giant patch that leaked water every few seconds. The light wouldn't stop blinking. Had he been transported into the past? No, there were too many details that seemed off. The bathroom was too cramped. It smelled like toilet cleaner instead of mustard gas. He was in the present, but he wasn't sure what was real. Was it really Cindy on the other side? Why did she let him into her apartment? Why, after all these years? Why were people still kind to him?

"Yeah," he croaked out. Selfish. He could never stop taking every offer of kindness that came his way. All he did was take. He would do it until he died.

"Okay."

He heard Cindy shuffle away. Silence dragged on for a few minutes. It was hard not to focus on the pain burning through his brain, the light piercing his eyes, and the cold floor against his back. He didn't know why he did this to himself. It didn't make him any happier. It made things bearable in the moment, but he always woke up feeling worse. Was it worth it? Did it matter? It wasn't like he was going to change. He couldn't imagine changing.

Cindy came back with a glass in her hand. He stared at it uselessly.

"I can't get off the floor," he said. "Sorry. I don't mind if you look at me."

"It's okay," Cindy said. She walked over to him and squatted to his level. Her eyes were now looking right at him. There was an emotion he couldn't quite place in her gaze. It looked like sadness, but it was such a faint and distant type of sadness that he didn't feel like she was sad for him. She gave him her other hand and pulled him up to a sitting position. He took the glass from her.

"My head is killing me. Am I dead?"

Cindy clicked her tongue. "You're not dead. If you were, I'd have you exorcised. Then, I'd admit myself into a psych ward for talking to a ghost. Now, drink your water. It'll help you feel better."

It made sense to him. When he drank the water, little bits of the night before came back to him. Remembering Xia and Charlie made him sad. Remembering a little of what Cindy said shocked some sense into him. His memories were blurry, but he remembered something about his fans. How they would love him if he was honest with them. It was hard to believe, but it was worth a shot. Puking helped clear his mind, too.

"Thank you," he said. "I don't remember much about last night, but you really helped me. I feel a little less awful."

"You're welcome," she said. "It was nothing no one else wouldn't have told you."