Chuckjd's Words

a convenient dumping ground for my writing

1988/02/20 11:06am

20 February, 1988 – 11:06 am – Nicky and Richey’s flat

There were only a few shards of light making it through the blinds in the bedroom of their flat, but it was enough to burn Nicky’s retinas anyway. His head screamed and echoed with dehydration. He buried his head in the pillow, finding the wet spot from his drool with his cheek. He cringed, doing his best to keep whatever was still in his stomach down. His legs were tangled in the torn and frayed blanket, trapping him in the bed until help was sure to arrive.

He went still, listening for anything happening in the other parts of the flat. He could hear the toilet flush and the sink turn on. After the tap was turned off, he heard dishes in the kitchen knocking against each other, which drove his ears insane. It made his head pound, and he buried his head deeper. The tap in the kitchen turned on, and Nicky guessed Richey was doing dishes. Why Richey was doing dishes at-he checked the clock-ten o’clock in the morning, let alone at all, was a mystery.

He groaned, willing himself to sit up. A glass of water sat at the side of his bed, and he was thankful to have something for his dry mouth. After he finished the water, which was warm, but valued anyway, he ventured out of the bedroom to the bright world beyond. He shielded his eyes and sat down at the kitchen table, putting his forehead on the cool surface.

“Hey,” Nicky mumbled as a greeting to Richey, still dutifully scrubbing away at the dishes they had been letting pile up for over two weeks now.

“Hi,” Richey replied without turning around.

“Is there anything to eat around here?”

Richey finally turned around, wiping his hands on a stained dishtowel. His eyes went far off, mentally taking inventory of their fridge and cupboards. Finally he shook his head. “You want me to go get you something from the sh-”

“What the hell happened last night?” Nicky said, cutting him off and grabbing his head. His normal conversation abilities were not up to par this morning. He closed his eyes tightly as a wave of pain and nausea ran its course.

Richey wrung the towel between his hands, strangling the poor piece of fabric, trying to find the words. “Well,” he started, “we went over to Jones’ Pub down the way and drank until we couldn’t anymore. I haven’t seen you drink that much in… well, ever. Then you threw up and passed out, and I slept on the couch.”

Nicky looked up for a moment, sickly studying Richey’s face. “That’s it?”

Richey nodded slowly, “Yeah, that’s it. Well, you did make an arse of yourself in front of some girl, but that’s barely worth mentioning.” Richey made a bad impression of a cheerful smile, the angles all wrong.

Nicky tried to smile, but it made his head hurt, so he stopped and closed his eyes. “Can I just have a paracetamol?”

Richey got him a glass of water, set it on the table, and went to the bathroom to fetch him pills from the medicine cabinet. Nicky took the pills gratefully and set his head back on the table.

“I think I’m gonna head back to bed. Or hurl.” He seemed to think hard for a moment, deciding which option sounded like the most likely. “No, bed. And maybe try to remember how dumb I was last night when I was drunk,” Nicky said, pulling himself up from his seat and wandering back to the bedroom. All the while, Richey followed him with his eyes. God damn it.

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