Ocean Breathes Salty
Rampant Regrets
A beeping erupted throughout my tiny apartment and I shot up in my bed. Immediately my head was pounding. I groaned to myself as I reached for my phone, turning the alarm off and laying back down. I rubbed my temples, hoping that my headache would leave, but knowing it wouldn’t. I wanted to go back to sleep. I was angry at myself for forgetting to shut off the alarm off. I had set it for my first day back to work, but that was before Dennis extended my leave for another week.
I shut my eyes, knowing that this constant migraine caused by dehydration wouldn’t allow me to fall back into my slumber. Instead, I was left to think about the previous night’s events, the ones that I remembered at least.
I was always a stupid drunk.
I regretted going out last night at all. Drinking didn’t make Hannah’s death easier in any way. I also regretted kissing Ethan Sheena and almost sleeping with him. I mostly regretted the way I had talked to John while in my drunken state.
I didn’t like John, which wasn’t a secret. I did nothing to try to hide my disdain, I was always an asshole to him, but last night I took it too far.
If he hadn’t brought up Hannah, I thought to myself, as if that was any justification for the things I said to him.
To say that John didn’t know how I felt losing Hannah wasn’t fair. If anyone in the world would understand, it would be him. I might not have been fond of John, but there was no doubt in my mind that he loved her and she loved him. Hannah was torn away from John the same way she was torn away from me.
On the other hand, I do think a lot of what I said was correct. He didn’t know Hannah the way I knew her, he never could.
I knew three year old Hannah. She came to my rescue when I fell off of the slide on my backyard play set. She said “It’s okay,” while she scraped dirt off of my knees with her toddler sized hands. She sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star until my crying subsided and I had calmed down.
I knew six year old Hannah. When I didn’t get the Barbie I wanted for my birthday, she said we could share hers. For months we rotated custody of that Barbie doll until my mom finally caved and bought me my own.
I knew twelve year old Hannah. She taught me how to use a Tampon when my period unexpectedly came in the middle of class. She didn’t make me feel embarrassed. She tied a sweatshirt around my waist to cover the stain on my pants before telling the teacher she was going to vomit. She asked if I could escort her to the nurse’s office before we left class and went to the ladies room.
I knew eighteen year old Hannah. She stayed after school and ran a mile with me every day for a week when I was failing P.E.
I knew twenty one year old Hannah. She didn’t want to get drunk on her birthday so she could make sure everyone who came out with her would get home safe.
John only had one version of Hannah, I had a million.
Still, I thought about how I would feel if the roles were reversed. If John had told me I didn’t know Hannah at all. I would be livid.
I sighed and pulled myself out of bed, stumbling over the piles of dirty laundry to get to my kitchen table. I grabbed the white and red bottle of Tylenol, twisting the cap open and popping a couple down my throat. I swallowed them dry but immediately regretted it once I felt them get stuck. I squinted at the sun shining through the window above my bed, and became increasingly aware of just how bad this hangover was.
I stepped over to the kitchen sink and turned the water on. I put my head under the faucet, swallowing water as it poured out. Pebbles of H2O dripped down my face until I finally retreated for some air. I pulled my shirt up to my face, wiping any water dribbling down my chin away.
I was still in my clothes from the night before. I threw them off and went into my tiny bathroom. I opened the shower door and turned the faucet, holding my hand under the water until it was warm. I stepped in and let the warm water wipe away any dirt and grime from the past few days before bathing myself.
I thought the shower would make me feel better, but when I stepped out I still felt awful. I reached for a dry towel on the bathroom floor and patted myself off before wrapping it around my head to dry my hair. I left the bathroom and squinted at the sun as I rummaged through my dresser, pulling on a pair of underwear and a sports bra. I pulled the towel from my hair and let my wet locks dangle on top of my shoulders. I grabbed a new pair of shorts and a plain blue t-shirt to put on before throwing my damp hair into a stubby ponytail.
As I went through my normal hangover routine, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I kept thinking about what I said to John. I kept thinking about the look on his face.
I groaned to myself as I realized what I had to do.
I located my keys and cigarettes on the nightstand next to my bed. I grabbed them, before slipping on a pair of flip flops and I headed out to my car.
I shut my eyes, knowing that this constant migraine caused by dehydration wouldn’t allow me to fall back into my slumber. Instead, I was left to think about the previous night’s events, the ones that I remembered at least.
I was always a stupid drunk.
I regretted going out last night at all. Drinking didn’t make Hannah’s death easier in any way. I also regretted kissing Ethan Sheena and almost sleeping with him. I mostly regretted the way I had talked to John while in my drunken state.
I didn’t like John, which wasn’t a secret. I did nothing to try to hide my disdain, I was always an asshole to him, but last night I took it too far.
If he hadn’t brought up Hannah, I thought to myself, as if that was any justification for the things I said to him.
To say that John didn’t know how I felt losing Hannah wasn’t fair. If anyone in the world would understand, it would be him. I might not have been fond of John, but there was no doubt in my mind that he loved her and she loved him. Hannah was torn away from John the same way she was torn away from me.
On the other hand, I do think a lot of what I said was correct. He didn’t know Hannah the way I knew her, he never could.
I knew three year old Hannah. She came to my rescue when I fell off of the slide on my backyard play set. She said “It’s okay,” while she scraped dirt off of my knees with her toddler sized hands. She sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star until my crying subsided and I had calmed down.
I knew six year old Hannah. When I didn’t get the Barbie I wanted for my birthday, she said we could share hers. For months we rotated custody of that Barbie doll until my mom finally caved and bought me my own.
I knew twelve year old Hannah. She taught me how to use a Tampon when my period unexpectedly came in the middle of class. She didn’t make me feel embarrassed. She tied a sweatshirt around my waist to cover the stain on my pants before telling the teacher she was going to vomit. She asked if I could escort her to the nurse’s office before we left class and went to the ladies room.
I knew eighteen year old Hannah. She stayed after school and ran a mile with me every day for a week when I was failing P.E.
I knew twenty one year old Hannah. She didn’t want to get drunk on her birthday so she could make sure everyone who came out with her would get home safe.
John only had one version of Hannah, I had a million.
Still, I thought about how I would feel if the roles were reversed. If John had told me I didn’t know Hannah at all. I would be livid.
I sighed and pulled myself out of bed, stumbling over the piles of dirty laundry to get to my kitchen table. I grabbed the white and red bottle of Tylenol, twisting the cap open and popping a couple down my throat. I swallowed them dry but immediately regretted it once I felt them get stuck. I squinted at the sun shining through the window above my bed, and became increasingly aware of just how bad this hangover was.
I stepped over to the kitchen sink and turned the water on. I put my head under the faucet, swallowing water as it poured out. Pebbles of H2O dripped down my face until I finally retreated for some air. I pulled my shirt up to my face, wiping any water dribbling down my chin away.
I was still in my clothes from the night before. I threw them off and went into my tiny bathroom. I opened the shower door and turned the faucet, holding my hand under the water until it was warm. I stepped in and let the warm water wipe away any dirt and grime from the past few days before bathing myself.
I thought the shower would make me feel better, but when I stepped out I still felt awful. I reached for a dry towel on the bathroom floor and patted myself off before wrapping it around my head to dry my hair. I left the bathroom and squinted at the sun as I rummaged through my dresser, pulling on a pair of underwear and a sports bra. I pulled the towel from my hair and let my wet locks dangle on top of my shoulders. I grabbed a new pair of shorts and a plain blue t-shirt to put on before throwing my damp hair into a stubby ponytail.
As I went through my normal hangover routine, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I kept thinking about what I said to John. I kept thinking about the look on his face.
I groaned to myself as I realized what I had to do.
I located my keys and cigarettes on the nightstand next to my bed. I grabbed them, before slipping on a pair of flip flops and I headed out to my car.