Wake up.

(Everything that was in italics, has been forgotten.)

You stir. Oh, you realize you're awake. Being able to move feels like a surprise, somehow... --Everything hurts. A cold chill shoots up your spine, and you immediately retch, onto the cool floor beside you. Attempting to at leash push your face up, wobbling like a baby deer, you look around, and don't recognize anything. Everything is blurry, and blinking doesn't fix it. You try -- and fail -- to push yourself up further. You continue to look around, then, and peer behind yourself, and recognize where you are.

You're currently laying, face down, across your front door treshold. The door sill running across your belly, raising your rump somewhat, with your legs outdoors, still. You're completely naked.

--The smell of your vomit makes you want to puke again. But the adrenaline starts to kick in, and you push yourself to your feet, amidst pain and weakness. What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK! What time... HAS YOUR ASS BEEN ON A PEDESTAL OUT YOUR OWN FRONT DOOR ALL NIGHT?! You slam the door shut, and attempt to sprint but instead stagger to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Your body. is.. filthy. A mess. YOur hair is tousled and full of leaves and twigs and sticky stuff. The EXACT shape of your tiles are imprinted across your face and torso, and your legs have a concrete texture. The pain is getting worse..!

You throw up in the sink, and immediately turn it on, to wash it away... you stagger back out into the hall, and look towards the kitchen and living room, and there's kind of messes all over, from crumbs to debris and garbage to stains on the floor and walls. Some worse than others. --Wait, what time is it! You have no idea where your phone is, but find it and immediately scramble to call out from work. The moment you hit send, however, you notice it's the weekend anyway, and you don't have work... and even if you did, it was almost noon and you would be hours late already anyway. You try to un-send the message. Nobody saw that, right?

You are panting and gasping and hyperventilating, you realize. ...Wait... no. NO!

You throw open your front door, and look outside. "P-" you begin, before you go and fetch your robe.

"POP-TART! POP-TAAART!" you yell, into the ether. Nobody else around probably knows it's the name of your cat. You're probably embarrassing yourself more, even now... but you don't care, right now.

Nothing. He doesn't respond to his name, really -- you don't call him by it very often. There's no need. It's just you and him. It's just you and him..! You're sobbing. Your head feels like it's splitting apart.

And then run inside to throw up again. You proceed to get nauseous, then feel a bit better until the adrenaline wears off, and repeat for a few hours. In the in-between moments, you check outside again. Close to around when the nausea was finally staying gone, you open your door just for Pop-Tart to trot right in. You instantly scoop him up and start crying. He's visibly annoyed.

It takes hours to clean up, inside. You still occasionally get nauseous, and ibuprofen does little to help with the massive headache. There's stains everywhere, from every type of fluid. You don't even know what's what. Even on your front porch, where your legs were laying... you don't want to know.

You take several showers, throughout the day. It is night, before you drink water. And no food until tomorrow.

You spent the next day just recuperating.

The next day of work, there was no significant fallout. You found concerning pictures in your phone, and worried you might've sent them to somebody, but otherwise nobody has approached you about anything else, and your messages show no logs of it. But in at least two different messaging plaforms, messages can be deleted...

Still, what a mess. It was scary, and haunting, and miserable. Several aspects of it bothered you, and several bothered you just as much. The worst was this obnoxious and completely unfounded sense of relief. Nothing about what happened relieved anything...

One thing is for certain, regardless. You're never drinking again.