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cherries.

6
    Kate
    “Hurt”
    —Nine Inch Nails
    W hen I crack one eye open and see a sliver of daylight, I have three semi-coherent thoughts. First, my mouth tastes like rotten maraschino cherries, and I don’t remember eating any. Second, there’s something dry and crusty plastered to my cheek, and I’m afraid to explore that information further. Third, I want to die. If only the zombie apocalypse would happen right here, right now and zap me of all memory and normal brain function. Because the alternative is that my head explodes into a million factions of tissue and cells. Hot. Metallic. Lethal. I gingerly lie unmoving under the pillow and try not to breathe.
    I’d pay money for one of those zombies to show up.
    Money.
    I frown, which also manages to hurt. But…where’s my purse? I search my memory, but I can’t remember bringing it home last night. And I need it, because the invitation came in the mail yesterday and it’s still tucked inside. I never opened it, and I can’t remember the time, place, or date for my father’s next speech. To call and ask would only get me a lecture about being irresponsible, self-indulgent, and scatterbrained. I could rattle off more labels from a lifetime of memories, but it pains me too much. If I could just remember what happened when I walked into the house—
    Then it hits me.
    How did I get home from the bar?
    Against my better judgment—a judgment that has served me well since the time my mother announced I would compete in the Little Miss Oklahoma pageant and I put my nine-year-old foot down; good thing, too, since the girl who won that year is currently serving time for third-degree larceny. I lift the pillow a fraction of an inch and allow one eye to slit open. This looks like my room. I can see the muted outline of three crepe paper balls suspended from one corner of the ceiling. Without moving my head, I can make out what appears to be the gorgeous face of Chace Crawford gazing down at me from the life size Gossip Girl poster I bought last year at Wal-Mart. Childish, maybe, but I haven’t had a boyfriend in more than a year. A girl’s got to live vicariously through something, and I’d rather not live through my roommate, whose idea of a long-term relationship is three consecutive nights waking up in the same bed with the same guy. It’s disgusting, really. I can’t believe I let her talk me into—
    Wait.
    Lucy. She left the bar early, after she’d snagged her potential “boyfriend.” In fact, I seem to remember snagging one myself—a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man who flattered me mercilessly and flashed a roll of twenties to the waitress when he thought I wasn’t looking. Or maybe he knew I was. Something about the move seemed deliberate. Either way, it was impressive. Stunning. And more than a little sexy. I remember talking to him, I remember telling him it was my birthday, I remember his comment about making it a night I’d never forget, I remember…
    My hand lands on the mattress as I struggle to sit up. I lift it. Bring it to my face. Try not to scream. And fall back on my pillow.
    I do not remember throwing up.
    Nor do I recall, no matter how much I search my fuzzy, comatose brain, how in the world I made it to my bed. My friends all left the bar before me, so who brought me here? Who let me in my house? Who left me in this bed to rot in a layer of vomit?
    That last thought makes me mad.
    With my head throbbing violently, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The person probably dumped me and left the apartment with a great, big laugh. I press my hands to my head and shuffle toward the bedroom door, stopping for a moment when the room begins to sway. It’s irrational, I know, but I need to find out if everything is still here. What if he stole something? What if he’s a murderer…or worse?
    I’m not sure what I expect when I throw open the door and stumble into the hallway, but the person I see sprawled on the sofa