We're All Mad Here
Chapter One: You Don't Have The Right Face For Emo
02092009 – 0743P
AN: "She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?" – Psycho
I got this quote, to be fair, from a DM/HG Harry Potter fanfic. I mean, obviously that's not where the quote was originally from. It's from Psycho. But I'd feel bad, somehow, if I didn't give some semblance of credit to what inspired me. The title, as well, is from Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland". Yeah. I'm a Carroll fangirl.
This story is going to be a little dark… I'm trying out something new.
It was three in the morning when I stumbled into the bathroom and fell to my knees in front of the toilet. This was early, for me. I usually made it until five. As my throat spasmed one more time, I felt my stomach reject its contents of hamburger, vodka, and accidentally swallowed pot smoke. That happens every time I eat while we pass around a joint. You'd think I'd have learned by now, but something about the vodka fucks with my memory.
It was, all together, a rancid mixture, but far from the worst I've encountered. Sushi, Budweiser, and LSD residue draining slowly from my sinuses would have to be number one on my grossometer.
As you can tell, I always have a food, an alcohol, and a drug. You simply can't have one or two, without the others. It just wouldn't be a good night.
Of course, every "good" night ends with your head encased in porcelain.
It's an unavoidable fact.
My stomach lurched one last time and my head hit the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor as my consciousness started to fade.
Oh fuck… There's going to be an octagon imprint on my face…
Oh well. Nothing I can do about that now.
I woke up with a groan and pried my face from the floor. The night sweats that accompany these bouts of after-party illness were sure to make your skin stick to any available surface.
I tried to sit up, gasping and bringing one hand to my head as it threatened to burst open from the accompanying blood rush. My palm was scraped up pretty badly and I wondered how that happened.
In that same instant, I also became aware of a heavy weight resting on my waist and legs, impeding my movements, which were sure to be difficult anyway. A night on the bathroom floor wasn't the prescribed method to improve mobility.
Squinting down at my stomach, I saw a full head of dark hair splayed across the expanse of my white long-sleeve tee. I ran my fingers through the silky locks before entwining my fingers deep into them, twisting and pulling up.
Daniel let out a cry of surprise as he was rudely dragged back into the land of the living.
"What the fuck was that for?" he demanded, wincing and bringing his hand up to try to pry my fingers out of his hair. My face bore a matching expression of discomfort as his deep voice resonated around the small bathroom, echoing around in my skull.
"Shut up," I hissed. "I'm hung over and you've paralyzed me. Get off my fucking legs."
I released his hair, pushing against his skull at the same time so that his head smacked against the ceramic basin of the sink. He hissed again and rolled off of me, freeing my legs, which immediately began to tingle at the lack of pressure.
I struggled to my feet, using the shower wall for leverage. I clung to the towel rack, waiting for the room to stop spinning. God bless that fucking towel rack. The useless one inside the actual shower, which no one ever uses because your towels would get soaked, and is therefore the most useless invention in the history of the world and should be destroyed. Unless, of course, you regularly use them to pry yourself off of bathroom floors.
Daniel continued to grumble from his spot on the floor as I stumbled past him. Had I had surer footing, I would have stepped on his stomach for good measure. However, being that the bastard had slept on my legs all night, I didn't trust myself not to fall over him and make a fool of myself in my attempt to injure him.
Additionally, only one thought was penetrating my mind, at that precise moment:
Ibuprofen is GOD.
Locating the large bottle I kept on my bedside table, as I usually did make it to bed before passing out, I proceeded to the kitchen to find a clean glass. I wound up simply dumping the leftover vodka from a tumbler and heading back to the bathroom.
Daniel had crawled up to sit on the lidded toilet, his head cradled in his hands pathetically. I sighed, turning on the faucet of the sink before gulping down a few capsules. I then pushed the bottle of painkillers and empty glass into his hands. He squinted at the label, and I spotted the nasty welt raising on his head from where it had made firm contact with the sink.
"Oh, God, baby…" I sighed, running the pad of my thumb over the red mark. "I'm so sorry."
"You're a real bitch in the mornings," he grumbled. "I swear if you don't fix this before I have to see Her, I'll become your own personal poltergeist."
"Poltergeists are ghosts," I pointed out, rolling my eyes. Daniel had a knack for twisting and repeating movie lines that he didn't fully understand in the first place.
"Yeah, well that won't be an issue because She'll kill me."
"Just tell Her you've become incredibly clumsy as of late. There's been plenty of proof of that since you met me," I sighed. We were forever injuring each other. It was to be expected. We were two highly aggressive, agitated souls stuck in a cycle of destruction.
He shook his head and threw back three of the horse-vitamin-sized tablets dry. I would never be able to figure out how he did that. I tried it once, and it had almost made me need to relive the previous night's worship of the porcelain god.
"When do you see Her again?" I asked, trying my best to act as though I was only interested due to his injury. Trying to act as though the thought of Her wasn't making my blood boil at that very moment.
"Thursday," was all the information he offered. I nodded. We never dwelled on that subject very long. It was the one taboo in our relationship, not to reach mouths nor ears. And I was never to set eyes on Her.
"It'll be gone by then," I assured. "I'll be very surprised if it even bruises."
I traced my fingers once more over the welt before allowing my hands to drift down to his stubble-covered jaw. I traced the bone lightly for a moment before snapping my wrist, slapping his cheek gently.
"Cheer up. You don't have the right face for emo."
AN: I don't know why I'm ending it here. I just am. Snap.
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