Sup bitches! Today I realised that hangovers exist because there needs to be a downside to drunkenness. What did y'all realise today? I bet it's the same thing.
Chapter Forty-Four: Down with the Sickness
My eyes snapped open to a dark room, lit only with fading glow-in-the-dark stars and moons that surrounded my light fixture. I glanced over to the clock radio. It was four in the morning. I'd awoken because of my churning stomach. Maybe I'd gotten food poisoning. Maybe it was alcohol-induced. Since I hadn't drunk anything since lunch the previous day (a halfway-through-the-day celebratory fishbowl daiquiri, to reward myself for making it twelve of the twenty-four hours) I could rule out alcohol-related stomach mishaps, but that only left food poisoning. What was the last thing I'd eaten? Right, I'd gone down to Hogsmeade and eaten practically my body weight in chimmy changas as a post-halfway-through-the-day-celebratory-fishbowl-daiquiri snack. It wasn't my fault they were so delicious, though. And the six shots of vodka I'd put into the fishbowl really didn't dampen my appetite. Severus had reprimanded me on my return, but I'd shut him up by telling him that at least I'd be going to London in an hour so he wouldn't hear my Mexican food farts all night. Far from pacifying him, he looked at me like I was some kind of creature from the black lagoon and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'utterly insane'. Oh well.
Armed with the knowledge that it was probably the six metric tonnes of deep-fried tortilla, poorly-cooked chicken and spicy sauce that was making me feel like I'd swallowed a lit firework, I tried to settle into bed to wait it out. Far from getting better, though, the horrible feeling in my stomach worsened until I decided to relocate my sufferings to the upstairs bathroom. With some regret, I left the warmth of my old room, pulled a fuzzy dressing gown around myself, and padded down the hall to where I knew the bathroom resided. I flicked on the light and was momentarily blinded by the bright whiteness of it all, the shiny white tiles, the white bathtub, the bright white vanity, and the mirror that reflected everything so that it looked like there was double the whiteness. Ah, this bathroom had seen some times. Some drunken, vomity times. Mostly by me, but I did have a memory of having to listen to my mother empty her stomach at three in the morning one St. Patrick's Day.
I sat down cross-legged on the fuzzy white mat that lay in front of the toilet bowl and pulled my hair back, wishing I had a hair tie or something to hold it back. I wasn't vomiting yet, but when I did, I was not going to be in any mood to hold my shit together. Not that I was ever in a mood to do that, but vomiting was a special, unholy time, and it deserved the utmost fear and respect.
One thing that got me more than the horrible sick feeling was the waiting, because my stomach wasn't showing any signs of getting better, and despite my heavier breathing and hunching over a white bowl, it didn't seem to want to empty itself either. I knew that if I just threw up then I'd feel better, but I hated throwing up. It was so disgusting, and I couldn't breathe while it was happening, and it left the ickiest taste in my mouth that I didn't want to brush my teeth over because then my toothbrush will have touched vomit and I'd have to throw it away. The waiting was so bloody annoying though. It was partway into springtime and it was still dark outside, so I'd have estimated it to be around five in the morning. Come bloody on. If I didn't throw up soon then I wouldn't be able to get any sleep when I went back to bed. Quick, think about the most disgusting things you can think of. Um… McGonagall naked. Argh! Gross! No sick though. Just a horror-filled expression taking over my face. Hagrid naked! Even grosser! Oh, that made my stomach turn over, but it didn't feel like expelling its contents just yet. What else was there that was gross? Well, there was the fact that I currently had my face in a place where people pooped. Yep, that'll do it.
Bloody hell. Mostly digested chimmy changa vomit was even grosser than pizza vomit, and that was saying something. I flushed quickly and felt the sick feeling fade slightly, but it was still there. Well, it wasn't at critical mass anymore, so I felt comfortable hunching over the sink instead of the toilet and rinsing my mouth about sixteen times. Ugh… I could still taste it. The worst part about a sick taste in your mouth was recognising flavours that you'd eaten. For example, the guacamole was a very prominent player in my palate. GROSS. I went downstairs as fast as I could without inducing another round of shoot-partially-digested-foodstuffs-out-your-mouth. Once I'd made it into the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge and for once, didn't drink the juice straight from the carton. Sometimes, you had to relent, and when you've just vomited, that is so not the time for drinking from the carton. I poured myself a glass and sipped it gingerly, letting the taste of it overcome the bitter, acidic chunder flavour.
Easter was not coming off to a very good start.
I clambered back upstairs to my room and shut the door behind me, drinking a bit more juice before setting it down on the nightstand. I felt very sorry for myself, very sorry for myself indeed as I curled up into a ball and went back to sleep, still in my dressing gown.
I was awoken in bare hours by my mother coming into my room, and without a word, opening blinds and letting the light stab me in both eyes. Didn't she realise that it was annoying? I groaned loudly and pulled the blankets over my head.
"I'm sick, I get to sleep in," I shouted through the blankets.
"Oh, that was you, then?" she replied mildly. "I thought it was you. Haven't heard that sound in about ten years."
What was she on about? The only thing on her mind should have been allowing her horribly sick daughter to sleep more, by shutting the curtains and then leaving lots of bacon outside said daughter's door in about four hours. "Must sleep, so sick."
"Oh, now really, Rapha, that's no way to behave on Easter. Besides, I'm entirely certain that your sickness was a result of your borderline alcoholism."
"It was not," I muttered. "All I had yesterday was my post-breakfast celebratory margarita and my halfway-through-the-day celebratory fishbowl daiquiri. Besides, I was completely sober when I was throwing up."
Of course, she didn't take me seriously. Nobody ever did.
