How can it be morning already? I can’t possibly get up while my head pounds this hard. Without opening my eyes, I reach out to find the quilt and throw it over my head. I twist around, trying to find a comfortable way to lie that doesn’t make it feel like the black on the back of my eye lids is spinning. But it doesn’t work, and my bed feels like I’m bobbing on the ocean current. I sit up quickly, nausea burning my throat. I rush to my little bathroom, tripping over my discarded stilettos and landing on my knees just in time to vomit the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet. I will never drink again. Never, ever again. My dad was right to tell me I shouldn’t do it. His rules usually have purposes, and this is one of them. I grip the porcelain as I heave one more time, then flush the toilet and rock back on my heels, wiping my mouth with toilet paper. The bathroom swims into focus as I lean against the wall, the heater vent beside me kicking on and blowing my hair around.
