“This is going to hurt,” James thought to himself before he even opened his eyes.  Although he couldn’t see anything, the world seemed to be swimming beneath him.  The last thing he could remember was the feel of the cold concrete patio under him as he lie sprawled out upon it in a drunken stupor.  That feeling had been replaced with one of claustrophobia.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at a blank wall.  He shivered as he felt the chill of the air from the ceiling fan overhead wafting over him.  He tried to roll over, and found that he could not.  He heard snoring from behind.

A wave of nausea engulfed the 23-year-old as he, with great effort, wriggled loose enough to turn and see what held him captive against the wall.  His eyes widened as he found himself lying next to a very obese girl who had attended the previous night’s party.  She occupied the vast majority of the small twin-sized bed in the corner of his room, leaving less than a foot between herself and the wall.

James felt his stomach drop as he visually scanned the room.  On his nightstand were a half-dozen or so beer bottles, mostly empty.  Shifting his gaze, his eyes landed on a pair of boxers lying wadded in a bunch near the entrance to his sleeping quarters.

With a sinking feeling, he looked back and forth between the abandoned undergarment and the large girl lying in his bed.  “There’s no way I was that drunk,” he silently attempted to convince himself.

He felt mildly relieved as he did a quick check under the covers and found himself fully-clothed, wearing the same outfit from the night before – shoes and all.  Squinting, he also realized that the boxers did not belong to him, although he cringed, wondering if they still might be evidence of what had happened in this room the night before.  Mentally, he added “wash sheets twice” to his to-do list for the day.

His head was throbbing as he climbed free of the bed and sat down in his computer chair near the footboard.  His room, generally neat and orderly, resembled tornadic aftermath.  Several books had fallen off of his bookcase in the far corner, and lie open in the floor.  The framed posters on the walls had hundreds of cracks in their protective plastic coverings as though they had been pelted with shots from a BB gun.  The masses of Airsoft pellets littering the floor gave a clue to fate of his decor.  Elsewhere, lamps had been knocked over, electronics had been relocated, and many of his dresser drawers had been either pulled out or removed altogether.  He noticed stacks of t-shirts, socks, and jeans lying in random places throughout the room.

“I’m entirely too hung over for this,” he muttered to himself as he got up and slowly made his way downstairs.

He found the kitchen to be a disaster as well.  The countertops were no longer visible beneath the piles of cans, beer bottles, and shot glasses.  The dull scent of Jägermeister lingered in the air, and didn’t do a thing to help his nausea.

He wandered into the living room to survey the damage there.  As expected, drinking vessels and beer bottles lined nearly every flat surface the eye could see.  The TV was on, although the screen was blank.  His friend, Ross, lie on the couch like a mummy, encased in a cocoon made of blankets.  His head poked through the top, and his mouth was agape.  A dark puddle of drool collected on the tan couch cushion below.

James turned to find Levi fully sprawled across the pool table in the adjacent room, snoring like a grizzly bear.

Suddenly, there came a series of loud crashes and a string of profanity from behind.  Quickly walking around the corner, holding his throbbing head, he found the source.  His corpulent intruder from the night before had unsuccessfully attempted to walk down the stairs.  Her inebriated state had left her sitting in a heap at the bottom, scowling indignantly and groaning in pain.

“What were you doing in my bed last night?” he asked, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“I couldn’t find a place to sleep,” replied the girl, rubbing her backside.  “You’re a little guy, so I figured you wouldn’t mind if I shared your bed.  You don’t take up much space.”

“What about my room?” James continued.  “Why is it torn apart?”

“I don’t know,” replied the girl.  “It was like that when I went up there.”  With that, she lie back, closed her eyes, and attempted to go back to sleep in the middle of the floor.

“I know what happened to your room,” said Ross in a gravelly voice as he emerged from the living room wearing nothing but his white boxer shorts and an enormous grin.  Although he looked like death resurrected, his mischievous pride was apparent through his squinted eyes.  “Tom and I decorated for you.”

“Why?” asked James, having a feeling he knew the answer.

“Well, after we carried you up there, we decided you needed some changes.  Your room is always so neat.  We can’t have that sort of thing around here.  So we fixed it.”  Ross beamed.

James shook his head silently, wondering what it must be like to live with normal people.

“Here, come have a beer with me,” Ross continued.  “It’ll make you feel better.”

James opted for a piece of bread and some Advil instead.  He leaned against the wall, chewing silently, as Ross opened the refrigerator and popped open a beer.

“Man, you should’ve seen yourself last night,” Ross said after taking a swig.  “Remember this?” he asked, holding up a funnel with a long, clear piece of tubing attached to the bottom.  James vaguely recalled his mouth being at the end of the tube the previous night, drinking the various beverages that were poured into the funnel as the crowd around him cheered him onward.

“You’re not very good at playing football when you’re drunk either,” Ross continued.  “You are a lot easier to tackle, though.  I thought we broke your leg a couple of times.”

“I’m going back to bed,” James said flatly, turning toward the stairs.  “And I’m never drinking again.”

He heard Ross calling to him from the kitchen as he stepped over the chubby girl at the bottom of the steps and began making his way up to his room.  “Yeah right.  You say that every weekend.  Just wait until next Friday.  It’s gonna be a blast.”

 

Writing Prompt: Describe the morning of a college student who wakes up after a long night of drinking. About Short Story Sunday:Short Story Sunday is an ongoing effort to improve my writing skills.  Every Sunday, I pick a random prompt from one of the many sites available on the Internet, and write a short narrative based on the topic.  As I wish to grow as a writer, your honest feedback and suggestions are appreciated. As a side note, this may or may not be a true story. Names might have been changed to protect the guilty. I may or may not be James. I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations.