The Hangover
I remember that morning being the last time I felt good—like wholesome, straight A’s, washed-behind-the-ears good. I lay there for several minutes with my eyes closed—before the headache set in. I recall red glowing beneath my eyelids as the sun warmed their outer surface. I wish I’d taken a moment then to silently scorn all the teen mothers, the drug addicts, and the unemployed vagrants of the world for this was the last time I’d feel that my moral fiber was any greater than theirs. Oh, to have savored those final moments of self-righteousness!
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. My pupils contracted as the light seemed to scorch them. I’m sure I don’t need to go into detail for you to recall the sensation of a really bad hangover—for that is exactly what I felt lying prostrate in that strange bed in the middle of God knows where.
What’s weird is I had no premonition, no feeling of impending doom like I’d always heard people in situations such as mine would have. I guess I could consider the moment that I wiped the sleep from my eyes and felt the stickiness on my face as one of foreshadowing, but the headache that I mentioned discounted any chance of realization.
In fact, it took quite a long time to register that my forefinger was gliding across the puffy bags beneath my eyes. Gliding? I caught a whiff of the faintest coppery smell before I saw the cherry red which titivated my fingertips.
I ran to the mirror to discover a sight straight from the cover jacket of Carrie. Encrusted around my hairline was the same red goo that streaked my face where I had disturbed it only moments before lying in that sun-drenched bed.
I searched my memory for an explanation, but nothing came to the fore. Cocktails in a black satin dress, then nothing. Rien.
I studied the crimson crescents under my fingernails as I listened to sirens sounding in the distance.