Night To Remember

Musical chords penetrate the bliss of sleep, pulling me into a world made confusing by bleary eyes and slow thoughts. I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here. My brain seems to be floating in a thick sludge, the connection to my limbs is feeble and they are heavy and misplaced. The music is insistent, though. It is trying to tell me something.
Slow blinking brings the world around me into focus, though still it swims into a distorted version of itself. Nothing is where it should be, or how it should be. The bed is too large, the wallpaper the wrong colour. The room is warmer than I would expect. My shoes are stood tidily by the wall. I never put my shoes tidily by the wall.
Adrenalin courses through my system, fight or flight? I compromise and sit up, reaching for the source of the noise; my smart phone. My mouth is dry, my tongue enlarged and the bitter cocktail of vomit and alcohol sits at the back of my throat waiting to remind me of its flavour with every swallow. I read the display: Hey hunni, how’s your head? Great night! Was it?
My feet find the floor, memory making sense of my surroundings. Vonnie’s wedding. A hotel room. Casting myself back in time, I can recall the ceremony, the speeches, but after that all recollection is fragmented; bright lights, a thumping bass line, a never empty glass.
Why are my shoes placed so tidily by the wall? I move too quickly with the sudden fear that I am not alone, lurching nauseates and I rest with my hand on the wall. There is no sound from the bathroom, but a lancing pain in my leg distracts me from confirming my solitude.
Pulling up my skirt (at least I am still dressed, regardless of worrying shoes) I find my thigh transformed in livid shades of blue and purple. I am at a loss to explain this injury.
The chimes of my phone play again. Returning to the bed I notice a glass of water and two tablets, along with a note. It takes more effort than it should to read ‘Thought you might need these. Simon.’
Simon. The Bride’s brother. A meticulous man, which settles the matter of the carefully displayed shoes. No need to fear any indiscretion there, he is a happily married gay man.
I swallow the tablets with the water, hoping that my abused mind will remember to thank him for his kindness later. The chimes repeat, reminding me of an unread message: We’re heading for brekkie, fancy a fry up?
My stomach makes its feelings on the matter known in an instant by rolling acidly.
Alcohol inspired amnesia freezes me, how can I go and meet the others when I have no recollection of the night? How did I get hurt? Then genius strikes with painful intensity - my phone!
The camera roll is a repository for everything that happens in my life, more accurate than any diary. It catalogues my meals, where I eat them and who I encounter: Selfies that chronicle modern life.
Dull fingers use the touch screen, revealing the digitised memories stored within. The pre-wedding drinks, duck faced photos with friends, the beautiful bride and then…just as my own thoughts, they fade and blur with only fragments making sense.
Pushing myself from the bed, I discard my clothes and step into the shower. Water cascades over my skin, washing away the scents of tobacco, body odour and a masculine deoderant. The aroma swirls in the plug hole and disappears, providing me with no further clues about the night before.
I summon the courage to view myself in the mirror once I step from the water. My thigh is not the only part of me that shows evidence of injury, my back and knees are both decorated with scraped skin and dried blood. I brush my teeth, staring reproachfully at myself.
When I return to the room, I find my phone has collected several more messages. I run a stiffly laundered towel through my hair as I read.
You up?
Did you pull?
Did you find the water and painkillers?
Missed you last night, what happened?
Why are they asking me questions! I don’t want to be interrogated, I want answers! But who to ask?
Unpleasant suspicions form from the memories of taste and scent. Lynx and Marlboro Lites, abraded lips; Dan. Even in this condition, the thought of him is intoxicating. Forbidden fruit, the best friend’s boyfriend. I didn’t, did I?
Thick fingers type out a message to the one person showing me definite kindness: James.
Hey, did you put me to bed? Found a note. What happened?
I stare anxiously at the ellipses that tell me he is replying.
The answer doesn’t come in words, but in a picture. It is a candid photo, taken over the top of a bathroom stall. I am lying, unconscious, on the damp floor, curled around the toilet. I throw my phone across the room when I realise that my knickers are around my ankles.
My vociferous swearing brings an irritated knock on the wall from the room next door.
The nausea is not caused by over indulgence now; it is all bitter regret and shame. My phone chirps again.
Retrieving it I see it is not another message from James, but a text from Dan. I am instantly dizzy, an explosion in my chest sends tremors through my limbs. He says: Hey you. That was a night to remember.
I break down into sobs, because of the utter certainty that he is right and because I don’t.