She's got no limits, she thinks she's so tough…

My eyes slowly fluttered open, and I groaned as the sunlight filtered in through my window. A few specks of dust lazily floated in the bright rays of light, and any other morning I would have been happy for the new found sun, but today was the bitch of all hangovers. I could still taste traces of tequila, not to mention smell the vomit crusted in my hair, and my head ached like I had been beaten with a sledgehammer. Still, I was lucid enough to partially wonder how I ended up in my bed. The last thing I remember was blacking out on the living room floor, bottle in hand.

Oh, right. After I woke up from my almost catatonic state last night, I staggered up the stairs – only to barf my guts out for hours.

My arm rested on the back of the toilet seat as I sat hunched over the shiny bowl, wishing to die. My throat was on fire, my stomach felt like a mini ocean with a torrential storm brewing, and I couldn't even think straight. I moaned and waited for the horrible nausea to pass—which never happened. My whole body was thrown forward with such a force that I felt it down to my toes, and I sobbed as I heaved into the toilet.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" I kept apologizing and although I couldn't rationalize who I was apologizing to, I couldn't seem to stop. It didn't seem to hurt though, so over and over I repeated my apologies, crying the whole time. "Please, make it stop. Please!" My body shook violently as I cried, my forehead resting against the cool porcelain. "Forgive me." I begged for an end to the awful retching, for the terrible feeling. I wanted to die. I wanted to curl up into a ball and close my eyes and die. Every time I threw up, it felt as if I was throwing up an organ. Always with the force of a car crash, always with the same heavy weight crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, after two more hours, it seemed that I had completely emptied my stomach and I dragged myself to bed where I curled up under the blankets—freezing—for a dreamless sleep.

The blankets were caught in my legs as I tried desperately to escape from my bed. Stumbling to the bathroom, I stripped and turned the shower faucets, letting loose the cool spray of water. Waiting, as it warmed up, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes, from lack of sleep, made me look almost raccoon like—fallen mascara and eyeliner from the night before only accenting them— while my brown hair was incredibly dull and greasy. My skin was an ash color and my face was puffy from all the crying and binge drinking. Red rimmed my eyes, and as I glared at myself—filled with self loathing—I whispered to the broken girl in the mirror.

"I hate you."

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After thoroughly washing my hair and body, I put on a clean cotton t shirt and a loose pair of ragged jean shorts. My damp hair was in a messy bun and I had to admit, taking a shower made me feel a lot better. Not great, but better. I cleared all the dirty clothes out of my bathroom and my room and as I threw them into the washer, I opened most of the windows downstairs—hoping to get rid of the awful smell of booze and vomit. In the kitchen, I found a bottle of Tylenol and swallowed a couple tablets and chugged a huge glass of water. Realizing I was still thirsty, I refilled my glass and drank more water. My head throbbed but I didn't have time for laziness or self pity—Charlie would be home in about two hours.

I ran back upstairs and meticulously brushed my teeth, until the only thing I could taste was the minty freshness of my toothpaste and mouthwash. Satisfied, I walked to the towel closet—at the end of my hallway—and grabbed a couple of old towels that Charlie and I never used anymore. Quickly, I cleaned up the mess I made last night and picked up the bottle of tequila, now empty. I sighed as I wondered how much got wasted, but I kept on cleaning. I poured bleach into the sink, hoping to give the impression that I had taken care of the house while Charlie was gone, while also hoping to overpower the other smells in the small house. My overactive mind worried that he would know something was up—he was Chief of Police, after all—but that just made me more determined to cover up my little one person party. I even went as far to throw away the empty tequila bottle in the neighbor's trash can. Hopefully, Mr. Ackles wouldn't get in too much trouble with his wife, if she ever found it. Just as I lit a couple vanilla scented candles and plopped on the couch, Charlie walked through the door.

"Hey Bells." He looked around the house and for a split second, my heart raced, in fear that he would see through me and would automatically know what had happened while he was gone. Before I had time to show the guilt and panic on my face though, he trudged to the kitchen and grabbed himself a beer. Practically falling into his favorite chair, he flicked on the television and then glanced at me questioningly.

"Are you going to make dinner or should I order us some pizza?" I sighed in relief and smiled at him sweetly. Although Charlie was a cop, he was very oblivious—this was much easier than I thought it would be. And why would he ever suspect his seemingly perfect daughter of being irresponsible? I rarely went out, always studied and did my homework, got straight A's, never got in trouble. Little did he know, I was self destructing from the inside out.

"I'll make dinner. What do you feel like?"

"Mmm…Tacos sound good?"

"Tacos sound great. I'll start them now." He mumbled a reply, eyes glued to the screen, and I slipped away to the kitchen.

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