Page 10 of Vipers & Roses

6

A notification comes through on my phone, and I open my eyes to find, to my horror, that daylight is streaming through the crack in the balcony drapes. The TV is on, and as I lift my head off my pillow, thunderous pain slices through my skull. I drop my head back down on my pillow again, even though the pillow feels as though it’s made of bricks.

I manage to reach for my phone on the wicker stool beside the bed that I picked up for cheap at a thrift store. But as I pat the top of the stool, my phone is absent. I can’t be bothered moving anymore, so I close my eyes and relax into a slumber.

I wake again covered in sweat, and my little apartment lights up in orange from the sun's heat pressing against the drapes. My head pounds, and nausea stirs in my stomach. I must be coming down with a virus. I move my leg and strike something cold and hard, and without looking, I know what it is, and my memory returns. Damn that cheeky little Sav. That’s all it takes for me to fall ill: half a bottle of Sav and three or maybe more than three puffs on a joint—no wonder I’m single. No, I’m single by choice. Anyway, where’s my phone?

It’s on the floor at the foot of the stool. I attempted to place my phone on the stool, but it fell off. Holding it up to my face, I check the message that came through a while ago.

Blake T: Got a time for our shooting session?

His message came through at 11.03 am, now after midday. I realize that I’ve missed my morning classes at the glasshouse. Damn, I love those classes in the greenhouses, where we get our hands dirty and learn through practice rather than boring ol looking at pictures and words.

Me: No go. I’m ill.

My mouth is bone dry and tastes metallic, so I try to raise my head off the pillow again to get a glass of water and pee. It takes several minutes to sit up because my head is killing me, but planting my feet on the floor is another dilemma altogether because the room is spinning.

Blake T: How ill?

Me: Very ill.

Blake T: Virus?

Me: No. Chemically induced.

I stand up slowly and approach the bathroom door as another text comes through, but my need to pee supersedes answering the thief’s message. The walls of my small beige bathroom wave in and out, so I close my eyes as I pull my shorts and panties down and land on the toilet seat.

Once done, I step into the kitchen to grab a glass of water from the spring water bottle in the fridge, then I press the cold bottle against my burning cheeks to cool them down.

Blake T: Do u want me to come around to hold your hair while u vomit?

This makes me smile, but emotions also surge into my eyes, and I don’t have enough brainpower to analyze why tears are falling. Pulling myself together by sniffing away my stupid tears, I resort to being blunt to push him away.

Me: No, thanks. You might steal my stuff if you come over.

Blake T: I only steal from rich ppl

Me: How do you know I’m not rich?

Blake T: No rich girl drives a Toyota Corolla 2005 model

Anxiety tumbles about in my stomach, along with impending vomit. I don’t want a gun-selling thief to know where I live.

Me: Did you follow me?

Blake T: No, I was going in the same direction as you

Blake T: Don’t flatter yourself

Me: I need to sleep.

Blake T: Must’ve been some party

Me: Yeah, me and my four roommates.

Blake T: U said u had five roommates

Me: One was away.

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