“Holy shit, look who's alive!”
Really, it was times like this, Risa decided as she slammed the door a little too hard behind her and stalked to the kitchen of the apartment she suddenly seemed to be sharing with far too many people, that she needed some sort of killing glare. Something like Cyclops from X-Men would work, or perhaps just keeping it old school and going Medusa-style on everyone. The apartment complex courtyard could use some redecorating anyway; what better than some stone statues of annoying-ass squatters that may or may not be related to her roommate?
A worried-looking face topped by a shock of red hair peeked out from the kitchen, face seemingly etched into a permanent, if only slight, frown. “Risa?”
Sure, Taylor and Jack claimed they were related, but honestly Risa couldn't see it. How was this adorable little string-bean, the one who seemed genuinely concerned about whether she was actually alright after being out all night without so much as a text or a phone call (or at least one she could remember, anyway) related to that hulking asshole on her sofa, probably fucking up her high scores on Mario Kart?
Risa shook her head and rolled her eyes at her own thoughts before giving Taylor a forced smile. “I'm alright, I promise,” she murmured, attempting to reassure her roommate. “I'm here, right? I'm fine.”
Of course, Taylor was the king of all worry-warts; her weak assurances did little to console him. For good reason, she supposed, since she wasn't really all that fine.
Last night's party had been great; she could tell by how she couldn't remember anything past maybe an hour after arriving and the rather sad state of how she had woken up. Her shirt had magically decided that it no longer wanted to be worn at some point in the night and had ended up in the corner of the room; her pants had stayed on but her shoes had suffered the same fate as the t-shirt. Apparently, she had passed out before anything too terrible had happened to her; her jeans had been unbuttoned and unzipped but had otherwise stayed on as far as she could tell, since if she had taken them off completely she doubted she would have been able to have gotten them back on without them being at the very least inside-out, backwards, or probably both. When she had sat up, head reeling from excess of alcohol she had flooded her system with, she noticed that she was not the only one who had ended up this way: next to her was Beth, the party-thrower, entwined with some guy whose name she didn't know but didn't mind being still passed out and shirtless, dark blue jeans having never gotten past his thighs despite the intentions of all persons involved and present.
Using the bedside table to stand shakily to her feet, she decided to let her fellow law-student classmate deal with her boy-toy alone without the added strangeness of the failed attempt at a threesome hanging on her head. God knows how she even knew this guy, let alone whatever else had gone on last night that really didn't need to be dredged up now.
As she stumbled to the wall, pressing her forehead against the cold, off-white paint of the room, she realized that she could actually remember something else from the night before: throwing up. She had puked; she could taste it in her mouth – something that was never at all pleasant. Bringing a hand to her face, she touched first her forehead and then ran her fingers through her hair – at least she had managed somehow to not get it on herself this time, which was always a plus, and better than the last time this had happened.
This, she supposed as she pulled her pants up and re-zipped and buttoned them, was how kids died at parties, or so the news oh-so-helpfully had been telling her lately, as her and her classmates watched in a combination of horror and amusement as store after store stopped carrying such and such alcoholic drink and states began to ban things entirely, as though that would really make a difference and kids wouldn't just buy energy drinks and vodka separately and mix them together anyway.
Perhaps the university had tried to limit the over-the-top celebrations by putting a majority of the finals on weekdays rather than Thursdays and Fridays, but really it did no good. If College students, even Graduate students, had a reason to drink booze and act like idiots, they would do it regardless of the day of the week. The fact that she was here on a Tuesday morning, shirtless, and probably about ready to puke again momentarily, was testament to that.
After a moment of getting her shit together, she had rescued her shirt from the corner, finding that somehow it too had managed to not get any barf on it, or at least not any she could discern from the graphic on the front at the moment, was just a little bonus to brighten up her otherwise rapidly degrading morning as the hangover and dehydration set in. She had no idea where the hell her shoes were and frankly she could give less than a fuck at the moment. Driving barefoot was illegal, but that was honestly the least of her problems.
~~~
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