About Last Night? Where Do I Begin... - IndieInk Challenge

This is an entry for the IndieInk Writing Challenge. Liz Culver challenged me and her prompt is at the end of the post. I challenged A Lil Irish Lass with a rather long prompt you'll have to go read about at her blog!

About Last Night? Where Do I Begin…

            My head felt like it was floating, full of teddy bear stuffing. The groan I emitted upon trying to sit up out of bed sort of reverberated throughout my skull and jaw. I’m pretty sure my teeth were wearing mittens and my tongue was a scarf.

            The sheets beneath my stark-naked ass were smooth and cool…definitely not my own. The room was light with windows around the entire room painted plain white. As I looked around, alarm began to rise up from my core (or was it vomit?) but I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. Where am I? What the HELL did I do?! Oh, GOD, Ryan’s going to kill me. I began to scrutinize my surroundings. There was an old steamer trunk covered in chipped white paint next to the bed being used as a nightstand. On it, an alarm clock displaying the truth that I’d slept until 10:30, my cell phone and car keys (thank GOD), a couple of remotes, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a note.

Unfortunately, there was nothing else around the room except for a few live music fliers and a rack system stereo near the corner. The hardwood floors were scuffed and scratched. There were two four-panel doors on the same wall. Both were closed.

I tried to piece together what had happened the night before. I was pretty good at working the evening backwards, usually. It wasn’t working this time. I flat-out blacked out at some point.

Okay. I met some friends at the diner. I had a BLT with Ruffles and a vanilla Coke. We walked three blocks down to a small, crowded bar – one of those places with pendant lamps and velour upholstery. Ryan suggested that maybe I’d had enough to drink but I disagreed. I remember getting into a small argument with him while our friends Chris and his new girlfriend Elizabeth stood by, helpless, and I went to the bathroom. Elizabeth came in to talk to me but I didn’t want to talk to her – I just met her last night. I remember talking to some other guy at the bar. Ryan came up to us. And then…that’s pretty much all I remember. Fuck. How did I manage to ruin my entire life over the course of a few drinks?

I picked up my cell phone. There were no missed calls and only one text from a friend in another state: “Are you okay? You sent some pretty effed up texts last night! Drunk again?” But no missed calls. Ryan never called. I checked incoming and outgoing calls. Ryan never called. Fuck.

I got up and found my clothes on the floor. I put them back on, tears beginning to well up in my eyes. The bed was nothing but a mattress on the floor, covered in very expensive sheets. I picked up my cell and my car keys. I didn’t even know if my car was outside. I drove last night but there’s no way I could have driven if I was that drunk. Either way, I had to piss like a racehorse and needed to find the bathroom. Do I want to see what’s behind Door #1, or Door #2? I opened the door on the right and walked into the bathroom. It was freakishly clean and empty except for a toothbrush, toothpaste, and toilet paper. At least there was body wash and a poofy thing in the shower. I took a really good look at the nasty, disgusting, shameful reflection of myself – then I remembered the note. Coffee. Good.

            The second door led to one big room with an open kitchen on one end. Again, there were windows all over the living area. Nothing but boxes everywhere, but there were some interesting things on the counter. My purse was on the counter. There was a coffee maker full of hot coffee with four coffee mugs and a barstool. I poured some coffee and peeked in the fridge. There was the sour milk, half a bottle of Dasani, a few Heinekens (eww), and a tub of chocolate cake frosting. I hate black coffee but it looked like that was all I was gonna get.

            There was nothing in the apartment at all to make it look personalized. The boxes made it look like someone was in a transition. There a plain blatantly-Ikea sofa and loveseat combo in, yep, white, but that was the only furniture. The more I realized how generic the room was, the more frightened I became. Maybe if I just focused on my coffee…but I couldn’t. My eye was twitching and the hangover was beginning to set in.

I have to get out of here. I have to get home and…and what? Where do I start? Where do I begin? There’s no way I can lie to Ryan about what happened – especially if I don’t know how much he knows. I have to get home first and then I can evaluate things. Oh, this is going to hurt…He was right; I should have just stopped drinking. He knows it interacts with my medication but I just wouldn’t listen. Why? WHY wouldn’t I listen?!

The dry heaving began, a combination of emotional panic, being hungover (nope, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk), and the nasty-ass black coffee. I heard a rattle in the front door behind me and it squeaked open. I couldn’t turn around. I couldn’t bear to see what I’d done – or, should I say, WHO I’d done.

“Hey, Cheryl! You’re up!”

Oh, shit. It was a female voice. I turned around. It was Elizabeth.

This is about to be a very, very, very bad day.

“Are you okay? Heh. You sure did drink a lot last night. I bet you’re really hung over! I brought some donuts. You want anything to eat, or are you queasy?” Elizabeth’s cheeriness made me feel even worse. I thought I was going to puke.

“Do I even want to know what happened?” I managed to choke out something that sounded a little bit like my voice.

“Oh, Ryan got called in, so Chris took him home to get his car. Ryan didn’t want to take your car so you’d have a way home,” she answered.

“So Ryan was here with me?”

“Of course. I just moved in and we were all pretty buzzed so you all just came here instead of risking the long drive home uptown. We let you and Ryan have the bed,” she chuckled. “It was closer to the bathroom and we figured you’d need it! Heh.”

I almost fainted. But I began thinking about it and I guess that would be why there were no calls from Ryan.

“Well, I have to go back to my old place to pick up some more boxes. Your car’s parked across the street whenever you feel well enough to leave. No rush. Ryan said he was going to your place on his way to work to feed the cats. See ya!” And with that, she went back out the door.

Liz's prompt to me was "Where do I start, where do I begin?" It reminded me of the lyrics from the Chemical Brothers song, "Where Do I Begin," which is where the coffee came in. I'm not sure I tackled this without the ending being disappointing or ridiculous, but I couldn't come up with anything I thought was short enough! LOL! Hope you enjoyed it.

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Heat Advisory - Indie Ink Challenge

I've joined forces with many talented people and decided to play along in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. Heather challenged me with "Heat Advisory," and Kiki Harshman was challenged with "what was the most amazing elementary school field trip you ever took?"

Two things: First, I haven't written creatively in quite some time. Please be kind. I just need to get back in the swing. Secondly, serious props to Wendryn for hooking me up. As a newbie, it was very helpful! Thanks, Wendryn!

Heat Advisory

           It had been exactly five months since I’d last talked to my Grandma Esther when she died and fell down the stairs of her turn-of-the-century home in Trinity, Texas. It took a neighbor a little over a week before he went over to her house to find out why she hadn’t taken in her trash can. I wasn’t notified until three days later.

             She was the only real family I had left, I cried to my girlfriend. Why couldn’t she just have let me love her? Marissa would just nod in that understanding way, and let me cry it all out. I knew why she couldn’t just let me love her. There were so many things between us: pride, anger, blame, guilt, and, of course, the generation gap. Then she died and none of it mattered. No one had won and, in fact, I had lost in a big way because I was all alone.

           

1987, Trinity

            I rode my bike around Grandma Esther’s block over and over. Her home, built in 1888, was situated on an entire city block. The lot was dotted with ancient oak trees, trunks as big around as our breakfast table and shade as plentiful as the scent of jasmine in the air. It was summer, so my mother, father, and I were on our annual vacation to visit Grandma Esther. The other half of the summer would be spent at my aunts’ house in Oklahoma, but I was living in the moment, enjoying the humid, sticky Trinity summer.

            The house was huge – two stories with an attic loft thing – but she had only three window unit air conditioners. One was in the kitchen, one in the master bedroom, and one at the end of the hallway leading to the other bedrooms. There were fans all over the house but it was always too hot. I preferred to sleep on the screened-in porch on the back of the house. The crickets were loud but the cicadas were the best. While others complained, I loved to fall asleep to the din of their vibrations, the sensation totally different than anything I experienced at home in Lafayette.

            I hated the adult conversations that seemed to take hours as my parents sat in the bright, white kitchen. The piles and piles of antiquities in the basement were interesting but the rats kept me from venturing past the last step downstairs. The attic was just way too hot even though it would have made a great playhouse for me, but Grandma Esther had screwed the windows shut after my mother almost tumbled out one of them as a kid. I did a lot of exploring over the summers but there was a lot of time spent just riding my bike around her block, sometimes asking for permission to go a little further away. I was only 11 but I felt as if I had all the freedom in the world as long as I had the wind in my face. Without it, the sweltering humidity was stifling and dangerous.

            Our last day in Trinity, right before we were to leave for Ardmore, there was a heat advisory for the area. The temperature was going to be 106 with the heat index and the city had set up ‘cooling centers’ for the old, the young, and the impoverished, or anyone else who was unfortunate enough to have no air conditioning. Head advisories were nothing new to Trinity. Every summer we had to endure one during our visit. Grandma Esther promised to keep herself hydrated. I remember looking out the back of our car and seeing her standing on her driveway, tall glass of pink lemonade in her hand, waving as we drove off down the street.

            That was the last time I actually saw her under normal circumstances. Things got busy with my parents’ work and they just couldn’t take that much time off anymore. Split summer vacations turned into trading off destinations, which changed into every-other-year vacations. I missed Grandma Esther, but not her oven of a home.

Baton Rouge, 1997

            I sat on the curb at the corner, waiting and waiting, but they hadn’t shown up yet. I was shaking even though it was probably ninety degrees and 95% humidity. I was sick, strung out, broken down and beaten. My parents were coming to save me. They were my last-ditch effort at rebuilding my life. My friends had turned their backs on me when I came close to overdosing – again. If I died in the house, then they would all get busted too and they didn’t want to take the chance, so I was out. I didn’t want to die and I didn’t want to be one of those homeless teens with a first name only, disowned by their families. I wanted everything to be fixed again. I called my parents collect, spilled my guts, and they promised to come get me – right that very instant – so for me to just wait right where I was. I agreed to hold out for the hour and a half it would take, so I popped a squat and waited.

            Four hours later, when they still weren’t there, I knew they’d changed their minds. I pictured it happening: Mom argued that they should leave me there, Dad argued that they couldn’t abandon me, Mom would remind Dad that they were supposed to be going on vacation the next day, Dad would tell her they could put it off for one more day, Mom would go through the laundry list of my transgressions, and Dad would eventually give in because, hell, my mother was simply a raging bitch. So I called collect again, ready to say last goodbyes, but nobody answered. I called every hour for the next twelve as I aimlessly wandered around the town, dehydrated and sweaty.

            At ten the next morning, I called a childhood friend that lived near my parents’ house. Jennifer told me to call back in an hour and she’d have some news or she’d send some money by Western Union. When I called her back, she said nobody was home and that my dad’s car was gone. They always took my dad’s car if they went anywhere. She’d been calling their cell phones, but it was going to voice mail. Jennifer wired me money and told me to get on a Greyhound and come to her house.

Lafayette, 1997

             The funeral was a blur. Barely 17 and I was an orphan. They hadn’t even made it out of the city. I was told they ran a red light and the car was t-boned by a beer truck. The fact that my father was still in AA made the whole situation funny to someone who was on the outside looking in. The truth still remains that my father won the argument and they died because he wanted to save me. My Grandma Esther was well aware of that fact too, and she didn’t let me forget it for not one minute during the funeral arrangements or the funeral itself. She told me I was never again allowed back in her home. We weren’t a big family. Everyone had either died or had remained childless. I was alone in every way and out on the streets by myself – forced out, this time.

            Jennifer’s family took mercy on me and let me stay with them. Eventually I found love and moved in with Marissa. She helped me find my center and find some stability both financially and emotionally. She convinced me to not give up on my Grandma. So I kept calling when I felt strong enough to deal with the guilt trip and the cursing. We had one decent conversation, right up to the point where I told her about Marissa. She hung up on me after muttering something about going to hell and a disgrace on the family name. I just didn’t think I needed to lie about my relationships but I suppose she wasn’t expecting to find out the truth. 

Trinity, 2009

            I kept picturing her tumbling down the stairs, bumping stair after stair headfirst, on the way down to the landing before the basement that frightened me as a child. I never did ask what had happened exactly and Marissa had asked them not to offer an explanation. None of the details mattered. The one thing they did tell me was the cause of death: heat stroke.

            Grandma Esther was a pigheaded, stubborn, angry woman. She ignored the heat advisory – again – and it killed her. She probably had refused to believe that a woman of her age needed to be more mindful of her health and its limitations. I wish it hadn’t happened but sometimes you just have to accept the truth, adapt to your new reality, and move forward.

            As for me and Marissa, we’re moving to Colorado. I’ve heard they have nice weather.

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