Morning after

...

...

BAM BAM BAM!!

I wake to light spilling through the blinds... why is the sun so fucking bright today? My mouth tastes like stale liquor and sand, and my head throbs—not a regular hangover, but something deeper, like my skull is full of fog instead of thought. Ringing and banging in my head is horrible until I realize it's not in my head at all—someone is banging at my door!

“Thalia! Open up!”

The unmistakable Monica’s screeching voice, of course. Who else would wake me up like that?

"Thal? Can you hear me? Are you in there?"

She sounds really distressed, I guess I should open and see what's going on. I drag myself off the couch, the blanket slipping to the floor. Huh... I'm naked. Weird. My legs are shaky, my stomach twisting uneasily. Blurry fragments of the night before float through my mind, taunting me with half-formed images: red-themed party at that club, Monica's disapproving gaze... that hot redhead in on the dancefloor... huh... and that's it, everything else is a blank haze. Weird, complete amnesia is not my regular hangover symptom. I must've drank way too much yesterday.

The banging continues. “Thalia! I swear, if you don’t open this door—”

“I’m coming!” I croak, stumbling toward the door after I put on a robe.

When I open it, Monica rushes in. The initial relief on her face instantly changes to anger. “What the hell, Thalia? You disappeared last night, didn’t answer your phone, and had me worried sick!”

I blink at her, still trying to piece together reality. “I—what?”

She crosses her arms and gives me her signature disapproving scowl. “You vanished. One second you were at the club and the next you were gone. You didn’t reply to my messages, and I thought something happened to you!”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, my voice still hoarse. “I must’ve… I don’t know. Maybe I drank too much.”

Monica glares, but her expression softens slightly as she looks me over. “You look like crap. What the hell happened? Where did you go?”

I lean against the wall, rubbing my temples. The pounding in my skull matches the pace of my heart. “I don’t… remember,” I admit, wincing at my own words. “You and Ryan were there, and I remember that redhead... Ariadne, I think. And then... nothing. I guess I was pretty wasted last night, huh?”

“Not with us you weren't,” Monica’s brow furrows. “You were maybe tipsy but that's all. Did you go somewhere else? With that... woman?”

“No, no,” I say quickly, though my memories are frustratingly vague. “Uhm... maybe? Fuck, I know something happened later on, I just… I can't bring it back. It's like I had a nightmare and I can't remember where the reality ends and the dream begins. But I can't remember either. Otherwise, I'm fine... ”

Monica doesn’t look convinced, but she exhales sharply, clearly trying to reign in her temper. “You’re unbelievable. You sneak away, get wasted with some spooky chick, and I’m supposed to just accept that as fine?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re lucky nothing bad happened. You could be missing a pair of kidneys or worse, you know?”

“Yeah, you're right. I’m sorry,” I mumble, guilt creeping in.

Monica sighs, shaking her head. “Look, I've got to catch a flight, I’m going on a business trip for a few days. I already told Ryan to check on you while I’m gone.”

“Mon, that’s not necessary—”

“It is,” she snaps. “You’re clearly not okay. Someone needs to make sure you don’t pull this crap again.”

I lower my gaze, the shame weighing on me like a stone. “Fine. Thanks, I guess.”

She softens slightly, though her tone remains firm. “And for the love of God, stop being so reckless. We've been trough this before and I expected after what happened to you with that psycho you'd be more careful. That woman—Ariadne, was it?—she might’ve been interesting and hot, I guess, but that’s no excuse to behave like that.”

Something about Ariadne’s name makes my stomach flip. There’s more to her, I’m sure of it, but the details are all shrouded. “Yeah. You’re right,” I say quietly.

Monica studies me for a moment before finally stepping back toward the door. “Just… be careful, okay? Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

“I will,” I promise, though the words feel hollow.

She hesitates, then gives me a quick hug before leaving. “Call me if you need anything.”

When the door closes, the apartment feels oppressively silent. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands, trying to piece together the fractured memories. But all I can manage is a vague, gnawing sense of unease—and guilt. Not just for worrying Monica, but for something deeper.

My body feels wrong. Not sore or sick, not the usual hangover. Just... used up. My legs ache like I danced for hours and then ran a marathon. And my neck—

I pause.

There’s something there. I walk into the bathroom, pull my hair aside in the mirror. Just below my jawline, on the left — two faint red pinpricks. Tiny, symmetrical. Looks like a spider bite. Or maybe a weird hickey. But... not quite either.

I touch the skin. No pain. Huh, this makes no sense.

“Must’ve been drunk out of my mind,” I whisper to myself. “What the hell happened last night?”

But even as I say it, the words feel paper-thin. Something did happen, I can feel it in my bones. Something... changed.

I need nicotine.

I dig through my purse like a woman possessed, tossing out lipstick, crumpled napkins, gum wrappers, my phone—where the fuck is it?

“Come on,” I mutter, checking the floor, between the couch cushions, even under the goddamn blanket I passed out with.

No vape.

I groan and flop back onto the couch, rubbing my eyes with both hands. The inside of my skull still feels like it's wrapped in static. Not quite a headache—more like my brain's buffering and stuck at 80%.

Wait.

My head snaps toward the laundry basket in the corner, like it might magically answer me. Maybe I accidentally threw my vape in together with my dress.

Uhm... this is not good... where’s my dress?

I was wearing that tight red thing, the one I only put on when I want to get some attention. And I definitely wore it last night. But when I woke up this morning—well, late morning—I was completely naked. No dress on the floor. No underwear either.

I sit upright, chest suddenly tight.

Did someone...? No. Nope. No way.

I rush to my phone. Still in my purse. Wallet too. Cards untouched. Cash still there, folded into that little inside pocket. My keys are on the counter, just where I always toss them. So… it wasn't a robbery. Not a hookup either, unless I blacked out harder than I ever have in my life.

I go to the bathroom and check my nether region.

No bruises or soreness. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least not there. My neck is another story though... I sit on the edge of the tub for a moment, staring at the tile floor. No dress. No memory. Naked on the couch.

“Okay, Thalia,” I tell myself. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Nothing happened. You just... had one drink too many.”

But I know I didn’t, I wasn’t even that drunk.

Still, I can’t chase ghosts all day.

I pull on a hoodie and some pajama pants, plant myself back on the couch, and put on the stupidest sitcom I can find—something with laugh tracks and canned applause and people who never forget what the hell happened the night before.

Hours pass. I nibble on chips. Scroll on my phone. Try not to spiral. Eventually, I stop thinking about the missing dress and the static in my head.

The sky outside goes from pink to dark gray, and I don’t even notice until the shadows are all over the apartment. I don’t bother turning on the light.

I'm just getting up to maybe make tea when there’s a knock at the door.

Not loud or urgent, but still like someone means it.

I freeze.

Who the hell—? And why not just ring?

Another knock.

I take a breath, move to the door, and open it, not even considering to check who it was first.