A breeze rustles the closely drawn dusty-pink curtains allowing yellow slithers of early morning sun to shiver through the wrought-iron burglar guards and penetrate the darkness. I blink against their brightness.
I push a limp strand of hair away from my cheek. My staccato breath breaks through the silence. I put my hand up to still the intense thudding which drums inside my head. My mouth is desert dry. I swallow hard. What’s happened? Why do I feel like this? I try to push aside the obvious answer. I’ve no recollection of touching any, but deep inside I know that doesn’t mean anything.
Maybe Karlos and I were celebrating the miracle of the new South Africa? Maybe I caved in and had a drink? But where did I get it from? I don’t remember buying any. Fuck, I can’t remember anything. I must’ve had a lot. I push myself up, hiding from the bloated face and glassy eyes which taunt me from my dressing-table mirror. I smooth down my ruffled hair. Did I really get drunk? The question’s rhetorical; of course I had. No-one feels like this and can’t remember unless they’d got paralytic!
‘Karlos … Karlos?’
The empty house mocks me with its silence. I try again. This isn’t funny. ‘Karlos … where are you?’
Still nothing! My heart thuds in my ears. What if he’s walked out because I’d become ugly; all slackened jowls and bitchiness. I hadn’t been drunk since before rehab. He’s never even seen me drunk. He’s probably repulsed!
‘Never again,’ I whisper, ‘please God, never again.’ I shudder out a sigh as I see Karlos’ brown cable-knit sweater and khaki pants tossed across the rocking chair. His pair of veldskoens sit neatly together under the chair. Thank God! He must be here somewhere. I’m being stupid. He’s probably outside in the garden and if I was drunk then maybe he was too? Perhaps he’s got his own guilt and needs a smoke.
I push out on shaky legs and take a few tentative steps. The room begins to heave. This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I swallow back the waves of nausea and narrow my eyes towards the bathroom.
I fumble through the drawer for aspirin and glug them down with tap water. I splash my face with a shock of cold water, then squeeze a blob of peppermint toothpaste with trembling hands. I must get rid of this puffiness and look half decent before Karlos comes back. Nausea floods through me. My mouth fills with the bitterness of bile and I retch. Perhaps I’ll feel better if I make myself sick?
Suddenly my legs collapse. My head cracks against the tiled floor. A vicious spasm shoots up my spine and jolts me into the air. I lie still for a second and then my legs convulse. I stare forward; bits of white flecked foam dance like sea-froth before my eyes. The spasms come again. They jerk my body viciously, again and again, until a final, fierce paroxysm pounds through me and stops.
I lie still. ‘What’s going on? Please God, what’s happening to me? Karlos? Nat … Elsa? Please, someone come and help me … please …’