Page 96 of Relapse

The bathroom is already a biohazard nightmare when I walk in, so at first I don’t clock the two girls near the last stall as anything unusual.

One girl is bent over the toilet, blonde hair falling forward in messy waves while her shoulders jerk with every miserable heave. Her makeup is destroyed, mascara streaking down her cheeks, one hand braced weakly against the stall wall.

The other girl stands behind her, holding her hair back.

Tiny.

Dark-haired.

Sharp little face softened by drunk concern while she gathers the blonde’s hair in one hand and rubs between her shoulders with the other.

Something about her feels weirdly familiar.

Not enough for my brain to grab onto though.

Honestly, my brain is busy trying not to inhale too deeply because the toilet is full of puke.

Chunky pink liquid.

Yum.

Probably three new strains of disease waiting patiently to be named by science.

“Georgia, breathe,” the dark-haired girl mutters, voice low but gentle. “You’re fine. Just get it out.”

The blonde groans into the bowl.

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. You’re dramatic.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

Okay.

Friends then.

Messy rave friends, but still.

Normal.

Gross, but normal.

I move toward the sink, fully prepared to wash my hands, pee, and return to my scheduled bad decisions, when Georgia lets out a wet little laugh against the rim of the toilet.

“God,” she slurs. “You’re so nice to me.”

The dark-haired girl snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Georgia lifts her head slightly, mouth smeared, eyes glassy and completely gone.

“No, like… seriously.” She laughs again, loose and stupid. “I don’t deserve it. Fuck, when I’m sober, I’m gonna feel so bad.”

The dark-haired girl’s hand stills in her hair.