Of Folly And Of Vice

I was naked. Naked, kneeling on the bathroom floor and upset. Upset that I was throwing up. Upset that I was naked and dripping, the shower still pounding the tub beside me.

It was awful and yellow and the taste stayed in my mouth, even as nausea subsided. I knew I could feel better – I had to feel better than this.

I was cold and still dripping when my body finally stopped. The shower was still on. My hair, which had found my quick exit from the shower disruptive, had begun to get wavy in revolt. The ends of it were dripping cold dots onto my pale, heaving chest. I was completely undignified, unladylike, unapologetic.

I hadn’t thrown up sober like that in years. And this is what it felt like. I was in fact not superhuman, as I had begun to believe during the course of events the night previous. My false belief started somewhere inbetween when Nellie was curling and spraying my hair while everyone fluttered around dressed up, and that last swig of apricot brandy I took down, before becoming a concern to everyone. I had assumed, wrongly, having woken in my bed, clothed and unhurt, that my consumption had not been without consequence. But in fact, it had.

I eventually got back into the shower and felt better, but not before I felt worse. Brushing my teeth was repulsive. When I had finished, I put on my robe, threw out the disgusting toothbrush and went downstairs to join everyone else’s day, already in progress.