It seems, falling asleep wasn’t the tough part. Staying asleep is not proving so easy. It’s four in the morning and all I can think about is the ten pounds of cotton that seems to have grown in my mouth overnight. I need water.
Staring at the white stucco ceiling above my head I begin to realize that I’m in unfamiliar territory. The couch I’m sleeping on is also unfamiliar, an old, worn corduroy feel, the color undistinguishable in the dark. I’m covered in an itchy blanket that smells like wet dog, or vomit, or both. Covered is a loose term. It seems that someone threw an old stinky blanket from across the room and it happened to land on my left leg and a part of my ass. There’s a sharp pain in my hand, specifically in my middle finger. It’s disappointingly familiar. It’s a deep throbbing that sends shocks from just below my finger nail through the center of my hand and halfway to my elbow. It throbs deeper and deeper as I gain greater consciousness. I wonder how I broke it.
Across the room I hear strange sounds that encompass the night. A combination of a clock in the distance, a furnace churning, and whatever other unknown sounds go bump in the night in this stranger’s home.
Lifting the disgusting blanket off my legs I begin to sit up, struggling to bend at the waist, and forcing myself with every ounce of energy I have. There’s a burning sensation in my side that temporarily takes my mind off of my finger. Unfortunately, it’s only temporary. Placing my hand on the ground to gain balance as I lift myself from the couch I am immediately reminded of the pain in my finger, though its cause remains a mystery. I bite my lip, trying desperately to muffle the bizarre noises that are forced from my lips by the excruciating pain. As a peculiar sounds escapes my lips I hear another peculiar sound from below me. It’s a person, or some inebriated version of a person. A pain filled, sharp squeal pierces the obnoxious humming noises that apparently pass for silence in this unknown home. From the depths of a deeply intoxicated slumber this person is ripped back into a reality. A hung over, thirsty, quizzical reality. I’m stepping on her hair.
This person is unfamiliar, yet familiar in some ways. Nobody knew who she was when she showed up or how anyone could be so drunk. Nobody knew who would be so bold as to rifle through a strangers refrigerator without asking or make macaroni and cheese without hesitation, or permission. But in a party with seven guys and no girls, nobody was in a rush to kick her out. I remember her barging into our house, and the confusion that ensued, but that doesn’t explain why I am here, or why she is here, wherever this is.
Gazing across the room I notice she is not the only person sprawled out on the floor, in a drunken stupor. This place looks like a war zone, pitting mostly young twenty something’s in a battle with uncertainty, youthful angst and alcohol. Apparently nobody won. Especially not me.
I plan a path to what looks like the bathroom, fixating on the thirst that is continues to grow. Focusing on the cotton field that is encompassing my mouth and throat. There is a yellow glow from behind the door and a leg sticking out of the crack where it is open. Stumbling over the battlefield of bodies, beer cans and bottles I reach the bathroom door and open it. The leg is attached to a familiar person. It is my roommate. I quickly assess my surroundings to find the nearest source of water. My roommate stirring, he opens his eyes and looks directly at me. I step over him towards the sink, throw the silver faucet handle upward, and cup my hands in a bowl to catch the water. As I lift my hands to my mouth there is immediate relief as the water quenches my thirst partially. I replenish my hand bowl, my source of revitalization and continue to try and drown out my cottonmouth. There is a chuckle from below me, as my roommate is watching me frantically try to cure my condition. I turn to him and ask, “What happened last night?” I am hoping that he will have the answer to the question that has plagued me since I regained some sense of consciousness this morning. He looks up, and smiles with an expression of confident confusion, a look of uncertain assuredness. “Another drunken episode” he says.
And I know all that I need to, or ever will.
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