Hey guys! In case you haven't read my first chapter, I'd like to point out that this is all non-fiction and the scenes described in my story all happened a couple of months ago. As always, leave me a comment to let me know what you think!
P.S it'll make a lot more sense if you read the first one.
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I'd reached the stage where I was drinking more vodka than water. Sleep was no longer needed - 3 cans of Monster for breakfast, 2 at dinner and Red Bull & Vodka in the evening. I was doing what I'd craved the whole term - going wild. Instead of going home, I stayed out at friends' houses or sat in the park, swinging on the roundabouts as our minds started to swirl and sway. Sleep is for the weak; or so I was told. I did this for a week straight and ended up crashing when I poured milk into my cereal and collapsed to the floor, the milk pooling in a cool white lake about my unconscious body. I woke up to my mum leaning over me, crying my name and attempting to revive me.
Several hours later I was sat at the edge of the sofa, facing away from the disapproving glare of my parents tired eyes. They discovered several empty shot bottles that I'd forgotten to get rid of. They were not happy.
My Dad cleared his throat. "You've changed, Katrina. In the eyes of the law you're not a minor but you're still our daughter, our child." He stopped for a moment and leaned forward, pressing my hands to his face.
My Mum grasped my arm, squeezing it. "I don't like how you're treating your body. You leave us for a week, off out God knows where doing God knows what!" Her voice choked up. "Then I find you lying on the floor, passed out with a carton of milk splattered across the floor. That was the first time I'd seen you in over 7 days, Katrina!" She wailed.
I kept my eyes averted from them. I couldn't face them. What was it to them? They were young once. I bet they were worse than me. It's not like I was on crack or something. I knew they were worried but it was the lack of sleep that did it. Sleep deprivation blocks normal cognitive functions. I wasn't dying; I'd just partied a little too hard. I was feeling better already.
I turned to face them and placed my hands in my lap, looking at the both of them. "I'm sorry. I know you mean well but honestly, I am fine. Look at me." I gestured at my face. "I'm going strong. I just drank a bit too much."
Dad scoffed. "That was not a BIT too much. That was far too much. You're a level headed girl, Kat. I think you need to sit down and..."
I'm going to stop right there. That's what you guys probably thought happened right? Not really. Truth is my parents didn't really notice what I was doing anymore. Sometimes it was fun because I could get away with stuff, but when I woke up covered in cold milk and coughing my lungs up, it wasn't so fun anymore. Sometimes the realisation of life sets in, when you're mopping the floor while clutching your concussed head. The party week had ended, for now. Sorry that I led you guys off somewhere there. It's all part of my little game. I write fiction without meaning to. Writing about my real life is strange, maybe because it's so much more intimate.
Once I'd binned the soggy cereal and wiped away the clumped mascara, I led in bed with a hot water bottle and a pair of pyjama shorts, complete with my gingerbread pyjama top. I had the house to myself for the evening and as I settled under the blanket and switched on the T.V, someone knocked on the front door.
I groaned and snuggled further into the duvet. Not now. The knock persisted. Go away, I thought. Suddenly my phone chimed and a new message appeared.
"Come to the door." I didn't recognise the number. Confused, I replied to the text.
"Who is this?" I held the phone in my hand, awaiting the response.
"Come down and you'll find out, 'tard." Who the hell is this? I tossed the blanket across the bed and slipped my fluffy boots on, trotting down the stairs. A tall silhouette framed the outside of the door and my stomach clenched. I opened the door hesitantly, preparing to slam it in case it was someone I didn't know.
A bemused face met me, scraggy hair framing his dimples. Jake leaned against the door frame, his stature filling the space. I opened the door and smiled at him, shaking my head.