Sunlight struggled to break through the half-drawn curtains, barely illuminating the bedroom drowned in semi-darkness. The clock ticked loudly, its persistent rhythm echoing somewhere deep inside my head. My languid sigh rolled across the room, disturbing the deathly silence, shattering it into tiny fragments like it was a crystal sphere. Consciousness returned reluctantly, even though the last thing I wanted right now was to wake up.
Beneath my body, heavy as if filled with lead, I felt the soft surface of the bed, which I had absolutely no desire to leave, even for a moment. Everything felt heavy—suddenly, unbearably heavy. A dull, throbbing pain in my head felt as though it were trying to split my skull apart, break it into pieces. It felt like someone had hit me hard with something heavy earlier.
Out of nothing, images began flashing before my eyes at lightning speed—fragments of memories that gradually formed into a single whole. Have you ever woken up abruptly in the middle of the night because of a terrible dream? That was exactly what happened to me. But I hadn't woken up from a nightmare or a bad dream—these were real memories. I opened my eyes so suddenly that the pain surged again, gripping my already suffering head with renewed force.
"Damn…" My hoarse voice was barely audible, even to myself. My throat was dry, and I desperately needed water. I felt like a traveler wandering through the desert, slowly burning, dying from dehydration. I unconsciously clenched the sheet in my hand, feeling a faint shiver run through my body—a chill that suddenly washed over me from head to toe.
Lowering my head and looking at my palm, I noticed something disturbingly strange—the sheet was red. Bright crimson, like blood. My confused gaze slid further down—no dress. My thighs were barely covered by a plaid shirt, clearly not my size. Nervously licking my lips, still not fully opening my eyes, I looked around—this wasn't my bedroom.
"What the hell?" Fear instantly took hold of me, forcing me to push myself up on my elbows and scan the room again, blinking repeatedly as I realized this was no dream. Everything was real.
But where was I?
To the right of the bed I was lying on stood a large armchair, upholstered in fur, and perched on it was Christopher Collins—my teacher—intensely sketching something on a sheet of paper balanced on his knees. He didn't notice I'd woken up at first; only when my concerned gaze drilled into him like a hole did Collins lift his eyes from the paper, stopping his pencil mid-stroke.
"Good morning," he said in that infuriatingly mocking tone, so characteristic of him, it pierced my brain like a needle, delivering yet another jolt of pain. What the hell was that?
"Where… am I?" I asked, my lips trembling, staring at him without daring to look away, utterly bewildered.
"At my place," he said indifferently, setting the white sheet and pencil on the nearby nightstand and measuring me with a teasing glance. Was he joking?
"Wha—what?" My already wide eyes seemed to grow impossibly large, and my right eyebrow shot up almost involuntarily.
"Don't you remember anything, huh, Striker?" Collins folded his hands calmly, speaking as if stating an obvious fact. And, in a way, that's exactly what he was doing. "Next time, try not to drink that much—then maybe you'll avoid blackouts."
The word drink seemed to act like a trigger, slowly booting up my mental system. My brain began a search, replaying yesterday's events—the ones stamped into my memory by the alcohol for a limited time. Viktoria's invitation, the club, all the drinks, Michael… Everything started surfacing slowly, with vivid, sometimes even disgusting, details. I shuddered, as if briefly transported back there—but managed to pull myself together in time.
"Why am I here?" I asked, lifting my eyes to the teacher, a mix of confusion and… detachment written across my face.
"Because you were so drunk I couldn't just leave you there," he replied.
"Where's my clothes?" The question slipped out in a weird combination of discomfort and stifled laughter, almost absurd—and maybe even a little suggestive—given that my underwear was barely covered by a man's plaid shirt, seemingly belonging to Collins. It still carried the faint scent of his cologne, tempting me to inhale it, even though it had clearly been expertly washed.
"The alcohol you… expelled got on your dress and jacket," he said delicately, a slight grimace crossing his features as he recounted the events. "I had to wash them."
I noticed his gaze drift over me, scanning me quickly. The shirt barely reached my hips, though I had tried to tug it down to my knees. I felt deeply uncomfortable—almost naked, in Collin's house—what a disgrace. I could feel myself burning up with shame from the inside. And don't even get me started on last night at the club. Who even drinks that much?!
"Mr. Collins…" I began hesitantly, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over the room, but he interrupted:
"Oh, you can just call me Chris. I've already seen you… drunk," he said, that same ambiguous tone slipping into his voice again, making my cheeks burn red. Sometimes I cursed myself for having such a vivid imagination. Where had I even gotten that from? I lowered my gaze, coughing discreetly.
"Can I… have some water?"
"Of course," Christopher replied warmly, rising from his chair with the lightness of a feather. "I'll bring it for you."
Hugging my knees to my chest, I watched his figure retreat toward the bedroom door. During those few minutes that the teacher was gone, I took in the room—it was surprisingly spacious. A large window was draped with long, pale blue curtains, adorned with the image of a solitary seagull flying over the ocean. In the left corner from the bed stood a big sliding wardrobe, presumably for clothes. The soft beige walls had a calming effect, and the intricate patterns on them were barely noticeable from afar. Anyone else might have felt cozy here—but not me.
The bedroom door slowly opened, and the teacher stepped back in, carrying two glasses of water. Why two, you ask? I honestly had no idea. Maybe he had some quirk—everything in pairs. Approaching the bed, Collins perched on the edge and handed me one glass. I eagerly took a sip—but within a split second, I realized it wasn't water at all. I spat it out immediately and gave him a sharply reproachful glare, which quickly morphed into a look of confusion.
"Now you definitely won't drink too much again," he said, taking the glass from my hands and offering me the second one with a confirming nod. "Water."
I squinted suspiciously but brought the glass to my lips and took a tiny sip, keeping my eyes fixed on Collins. And indeed—it was water this time. No trickery.
"There," he said, pointing to the wooden nightstand by the bed, crafted in some unusual style, "there are some headache pills. You can get them."
Of course, the teacher knew perfectly well that after last night, my head wasn't just throbbing—it felt like it might explode from the unbearable pain, the kind that made you want to howl like a wolf. Placing the glass on the nightstand, I tentatively reached for it, opening it with a barely audible creak—but in my ears, that sound was as loud as a plane taking off. So loud, so unbearable.
So, there was some jewelry box, a home phone, a bunch of random papers, condoms... Wait, what? Yep, there really was a pack of condoms—a big pack, mind you. Feeling my cheeks flush again at lightning speed, I awkwardly lowered my gaze and, oh my God, finally landed on the precious pills sitting on the lowest shelf.
"Found them?" Collins asked, his eyes fixed on his phone screen as he furiously typed something.
"Yes," I mumbled, pulling out a pill and popping it from the pack. Finally, maybe the pain would stop. Not instantly, of course—not right away—but over time, it should ease. God, what a nightmare. How did I even agree to my friend's offer? How did I get so drunk that my head was slowly exploding this morning? How?!
I swallowed the pill greedily, washing it down with water as if I hadn't tasted anything in ages. Immediately, I wanted my clothes back. Badly. Walking around in just a shirt—barely covering my most delicate areas—and in front of my own teacher, no less, was absolutely not my idea of fun.
The teacher obediently guided me to the bathroom, where my dry dress and precious leather jacket were laid out on the warm radiator. I closed the door and turned the latch. My eyes fell on my reflection in the mirror above the sink: my hair was a mess, not a ponytail, dark circles under my eyes so huge they could easily hold a kangaroo joey, and my lips were so dry even the lip balm hadn't helped. I breathed onto my hand—ugh, it smelled terrible!
I immediately set to fixing myself: let down my hair, wrapped a hair tie around my wrist, and somehow finger-combed it—without a brush, it was tough, ugh—washed my face carefully, trying to reclaim a bit of the energy that had completely vanished that morning, slipped off the oversized shirt, and finally put my own clothes back on. One last glance in the mirror showed that, aside from the bruises under my eyes—left by the dreadful hangover from last night—there was nothing left of the miserable alcohol-soaked version of myself. Those bruises, unfortunately, could only be hidden with makeup for now.
I slowly opened the door, holding the shirt, intending to give it back to the teacher. I found my way back to his bedroom on my own, but he wasn't there. I just set the shirt on the edge of the chair and started digging through my small purse for my phone. As it turned out, it was dead. And at the worst possible time.
Collins called out to me from somewhere in the apartment, and I followed his voice until I reached the kitchen. It was just as spacious and cozy as the bedroom, nothing smaller about it. Christopher was busy at the stove, and soon he placed a plate on the round wooden table—a fried egg with bacon, which, I have to admit, looked incredibly appetizing.
"Want some?" the teacher asked casually, nodding toward the plate with its little decorative twists.
"No," I blurted out sharply, shaking my head—but my stomach had other plans, and the next moment it erupted like a volcano.
"You will," Collins said, nodding, walking over, and gently seating me on a chair.
I felt extremely awkward. Actually, let's be honest—I had felt this way from the very second I woke up and realized I was in a stranger's apartment. And not just any stranger's—my own teacher's apartment.
"Can I use your phone? Mine's dead," I asked, looking at him uncertainly. "I need to call a cab."
"Oh, I'll drive you. Don't worry," he replied, and I just raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Eat first… or I won't let you go."
Actually, the last part was meant as a joke. But, well, the joke didn't land. I sighed deeply, nodded, and began eating the quickly prepared meal. I really, really wanted to go home.