I'm officially an entire day behind and I hate all my characters and everything that's happened so far. I will definately need a prologue if I keep this opening because I don't know who in the hell would follow this freakin' Veronica chick around. If you want to know what she's up to on Day 3, keep reading. Click Day 1 and Day 2 to find out what she was up to previously.
The Horrorphiles by Stephanie Thompson, 1,130 words
Veronica woke up the next morning feeling like her head weighed a ton, specifically like a ton of bricks dropped off the Empire State Building and then crashed into a bus. She couldn’t even open her eyes at first, like they’d been pasted shut. When she finally did, it was only the right one and she was so depressed by what she saw that she immediately shut it again. The rush of last night’s memories came in like a late rush hour express train passengers boarding an overcrowded car, but sort of fuzzy like a foggy morning dawn.
Becky couldn’t give her a ride home because she had to go see her aunt, mother, or something. The meeting had gone over long because she was too drunk to be in charge and shut it down on time. Instead they stayed at the restaurant until just before closing, and after the last bus had gone. Kurt had given her a ride home. She would have rather slept on a bus bench in the end.
When they got to her door, because he insisted on seeing her to the door, she opened it, protesting his presence in a drunkened mumbley sort of way, and immediately starting crying, trembling, and mentally cursing Becky for dragging her out that night.
“Have you been robbed?” Kurt asked
The question kept repeating in her head. Have you been robbed? Have you been robbed? Have you been robbed? Was she robbed? Stuff was missing certainly. That was clear enough. But it wasn’t hers. Yes, she had been robbed. Robbed a whole person.
But she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t say anything. How could she? It was too big, too much to say. And besides it wasn’t horror related, the only topic she and Kurt had discussed up to this point.
The things before and after that sort fizzed out of existence. She remembered getting in Kurt’s car but not the car ride. She remembered discussing rides with Becky and Dan but not why exactly or what they were doing before that. She remembered opening the door, crying, but not what happened after. Yet she could hear someone moving around in the kitchen.
She wanted to get up and investigate. See if it was Becky coming to see the results of the stream of margaritas she’d ordered. Or see if it was Kurt, making breakfast after a night of sex, fueled by the aforementioned margaritas. And a tiny stupid voice suggested it could be Jordan, coming back to pick up something he’d forgotten.
That’s what finally got both eyes open. Even the remotest slimmest chance that he was back got her out of bed. No matter how illogical it was, no matter how pathetic it was, no matter how much her head and stomach protested. If it was Jordan she had to move quick before he slipped away again, this time forever.
Of course it wasn’t Jordan though. There wasn’t anything he could have forgotten in the kitchen. Besides he’ snuck back into Aunt Wanda’s apartment while she was, no, when he knew she would be out, to take back his possessions without having to see her again, anything he left behind now was likely to stay with Veronica forever until she threw it out. Watching Kurt fuss with the toaster Aunt Wanda before Ronny was even born, made her think it wouldn’t be the latter.
“Morning, morning Ronny,” Kurt said happily. “Bet you feel crummy today.”
“He, he, yeah.” She sat at the breakfast bar unsure of where to start questioning what happened without adding to the awkwardness. “I guess I did tie a few on last night.”
“If you were wondering, nothing happened last night.” He placed a mug of coffee in front of her. “Between us I mean. I slept on the recliner.”
He pointed at the living room and she turned like she had to see what he was talking about, as if she hadn’t seen Aunt Wanda fall asleep in the very same recliner for most of her life. Even so, it was shocking to look at the disheveled apartment in the light of a hangover. Big gaps marred the dvd shelves, a frame was knocked over, blank spaces where his poster hung left the wall looking stark. (List other missing things)
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. What she wanted to say was Thank God and Phew. “Um . . . So . . . What did happen?”
He shrugged. “You tried to kiss me outside the bathroom at the restaurant.”
“Oh,” she said again. She drank from her mug, trying to use it to hide the blush of her face.
“I mean, not a real kiss or anything. Just saying thank you for the ride even though we hadn’t left yet. You kind of seemed like you were having fun.”
“Oh.” This wasn’t really going anywhere. Her mind was only half at ease and she didn’t know what to ask next for clearer clarification without being out right rude.
He put toast in front of her. Was that hwat had made the noise earlier, that had drawn her into the kitchen first place? She’d thought he was making eggs or something. Toast and coffee should have been more quiet than that.
She finally decided to be direct. Aunt Wanda wouldn’t sit at her own kitchen and dither about drunken going-ons, she would just ask. “So you stayed the night?”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t stop crying and you weren’t saying anything.” HE stopped moving around the small kitchen and looked at her sincerely with his deep brown eyes. “I just wanted to be sure you would be all right.”
“Oh.” She took a noisy bite of her toast and a big sip of coffee to avoid saying anything else.
He did the same, eating over the counter, for whatever his own reasons were, probably normal things like thirst and hunger because it didn’t slow his talking much. “So, do we need to make a police report or something?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t lift her eyes from her toast. If she had to think about it too much or look around again, whatever normalcy or sanity she had that morning would slip away.
“What’s wrong your place? Looks ransacked.”
“My boyfriend and . . . We had a fight and I guess we broke up for good . . . So . . . He came and got his stuff. . . I guess.”
She continued to stare down her toast and mug of coffee. “Yeah, it does,” she said, because it was true and she couldn’t put it any more eloquently than that.
The rest of the meager breakfast was consumed in intensely awkward silence at least on Veronica’s part. Kurt ate like there was nothing uncomfortable or odd about the entire thing.