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This wasn’t the first time he had woken up on the floor. To call it a routine would be pushing it, but the grainy carpet was no stranger to his right cheek. He rolled over to see what he had attempted to use as a pillow this time. A shoe and an empty Kirkland brand water bottle greeted him on his left. “Well, at least we’re getting creative with it,” he thought to himself.
He laid on his back underneath the ping pong table, anxiously waiting for the headache to set in. Sunlight streamed through the blinds and onto the floor around him, illuminating the empty Busch Light cans and broken tortilla chips that he had chosen to spend the night with. This wasn’t his house, not by a long shot. He had never been one for carpeting, it was always too much of a hassle to clean.
A groan slowly traveled through the living room and into the safe area he made for himself the night before. He knew he wasn’t alone, but he wasn’t sure how many people had decided to stay the night. Rolling to his left and squinting his eyes, he peered into the living room to take a quick count. It looked like there were at least four others, plus what he could only guess would be four more staying in bedrooms.
It was a great party. At least, he was pretty sure it was. Everything gets blurry after you’re peer pressured into slamming four shots of tequila in a row. When you brown out, the night comes back to you in stages. It’s almost like if you asked someone to summarize a movie that you hadn’t seen for you; you can gather the main plot points, but if anyone asks you about it, you can only say, “I heard it was good.” The last thing he truly remembered was sitting in the grass with his best friend and wondering when they would grow up.
He patted down his pockets to make sure he still had everything. Keys in the left front pocket, phone in the back left, wallet in the back right. All parties were accounted for. As he popped his knees up to pull his phone out, he noticed a stain on his left leg. Nothing big, but it looked like someone had spilled a few drops of strawberry daiquiri mix on him. It was entirely possible, what with the tropical theme of the night.
But as he tried to grip his phone in his right hand, he noticed it was difficult. He couldn’t close his fist around it. His knuckles were swollen. Stinging. Raw.
Suddenly, he could feel his heart pounding in his throat. Switching hands, he opened app after app, searching for breadcrumbs of what happened no more than 10 hours ago. Nothing on Twitter. Instagram was barren. He rarely used Facebook, so there was no point in opening that. He didn’t have any photos on his Snap Story, but he saw that his friends had been posting throughout the night.
A video of Mark and Greg playing beer pong. A photo of Lukas making out with some girl. A video of himself vomiting in the back yard, followed by a video of himself under the ping pong table, pushing the camera away. “FUCK YOU!” he yelled. “I’M JUST TRYING TO SLEEP!” The video was time stamped for 2:13 in the morning.
He didn’t have any pictures on his phone to help him along. He put his hands over his face and replayed the night over and over. Only one event was standing out to him, but it was so vague and out of character that he thought it was a dream.
A groan echoed through the room again, this time louder. It was broken, like a kid going through puberty, sounding more like a whimper at the end.
He wiped his face with his hands and cautiously sat up, weary of hitting his head on the table. The hangover was starting to set in, drowned out by the fear of what might have happened the night before. He opened his text messages to let his girlfriend know he was going to try and get back home as soon as he could, but was met with a surprise.
A text message sent from him at 3:56 in the morning read, “Something bad happened. I got into a fight. I’m okay. Will tell you about it tomorrow.”
It couldn’t be true. He wasn’t a violent person. He must have been dreaming. He thought of all the times he scoffed at the drunk guys getting into fights and the pit in his stomach dropped further.
He stood up, shaking his head and wiping his face. There was no way he got into a fight. He would be sore. Fuck, he would have lost.
He slowly walked from his corner to the living room, not ready to believe what all the signs were pointing to. He noticed the red stains on the floor that matched his pants, the rug that was mangled and pushed to the side.
And as he looked across the room, he saw the quiet guy from the party leaning back in the lounge chair in the corner, eyes welled with tears. As he sat up, he turned his face to show the dry blood that had been leaking from his nose and his jaw that had swollen to the size of a golf ball..
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Charlie
Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism since 1993. At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Get at me at charliepgp@gmail.com or whatever.
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herescharlie
Secondhand Scaries coming in fast.
“Sitting in the grass with his best friend wondering when they would grow up” that line hits closer to home than anything I’ve ever read.
What am I supposed to do today without a Things Girls Do After Graduation?
Jesus this gave me anxiety.
What. The. Hell.
Eh i will give you the benefit of the doubt Chuck in that you coldcocked him for a good reason.
you definitely punched the person that was snapping you while you were just trying to sleep.