103
Bella Swan/has died ... please leave a message
That's it.
I'm breaking my lease.
My new address is the spot on the floor in front of Edward's toilet.
Please forward all of my mail accordingly.
I dry heave and promise that I'll never drink again if this feeling would just disappear.
I lie.
But don't we all at some point in our lives?
Edward is calling words of encouragement from the living room.
He's a sympathetic puker.
Are we surprised?
I'm trying to figure out how to get to my phone, wherever I left it when we stumbled in at whatever the fuck o'clock.
I need my mom.
She makes this drink that smells like the devil's asshole but makes everything better.
High school me choked back a few glasses of her cure back in the day.
I'm crawling across the bathroom floor when I hear a loud knock.
And then stomping toward the front door.
"Mom? What are you doing here?" Edward asks.
I look to the ceiling.
"Not the mom I was talking about."