Aftermath - Shane Barrett

The first thing Shay really notices is the sunlight.
There’s a stray beam of it sneaking through the curtains somewhere. 
He does remember the curtains. A weird sort of patterned damask that didn’t make sense in a frat house. He noticed that when they first walked into the place. Lots of mismatched furniture that looked (and smelled) like it had been brought out of storage units where it was put in the seventies, and then those curtains that look like they belong in a French castle. 
Everything is pretty hazy after that.
It’s rather obvious what happened, in terms of generally how his night must have gone. He’s naked, wrapped up in a blanket on a mattress on the floor. 
But he doesn’t remember any of that. He doesn’t even remember kissing that girl.
He doesn’t even remember her name. 
Shit.
The sunlight is making his eyes ache, and his skin, wherever the sun hits it, feels hot, almost burnt. 
He grimaces. He must have a pretty nasty hangover. He’d never gotten drunk in high school. Sure, there’d been the occasional beer in his friends’ basements, swiped from their dads’ fridges, but never enough to be messed up the next day. He couldn’t risk it. 
He tries to stand, and his body instantly rebels. So does his stomach. He ends up leaning on the wall about halfway to the door, wishing he’d had something other than the dining hall tacos yesterday evening, when the door opens.
He vaguely recognizes this guy from the party last night. One of the frat guys. James, Jake, Jerry, maybe?
“Hey, man, you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” His voice is raw and raspy in his throat, and his jaws and even his teeth hurt. 
“Well…” the guy trails off. “At least you had a good time last night, huh?” Jason. His name is Jason. Shay’s brain is finally catching up. At least in some aspects. But there’s still a big blank spot right where he needs answers the most. 
“I…I guess. I don’t…I don’t actually remember.” He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose to try and stave off the headache. “I don’t really remember anything after she gave me that drink, but we must have…” He gestures vaguely to the blanket thrown across his legs. “Who was she?”
“Who was who, dude?”
“The girl? The one who was helping host?” He’s starting to feel like he’s going crazy. 
“Who?” Jason frowns. 
“The redhead. From your sister house?”
“Dude. First of all, there are no redheads in that house. Trust me. I’d remember.” Jason trails off, as if he’s forgotten there was supposed to be more to that explanation. Or maybe that ‘first of all’ was just some kind of reflex conversation starter.
“Did you at least recognize her?”
“No, man, like…I saw you with her, but I don’t know who she was. I figured she was scoping the place out too, or looking to hook up. Guess it was the hookup thing, huh?”
Shay flinches, and his stomach turns over. He barely manages to make it to the bathroom across the hall, which he also has a vague recollection of seeing the night before, before he’s puking his guts out. 
“Hell of a hangover, huh?” Jason asks, his voice slurring like he’s already been drinking his own off. 
Shay just nods. 
He’s just someone’s one night stand. She didn’t even leave a note. She doesn’t ever want to see him again. 
He’s glad the tears can be passed off as a reaction to the heaving still shaking his body. He already feels wretched. He doesn’t need anyone else latching onto his emotions and making them a joke. 
He’s been toyed with enough.
Another round of tears traces down his cheeks at that thought. 
He wipes them away before stumbling back to the room, collecting as many of his clothes from last night as he can find (the missing sock is simply going to have to stay missing) and turning back to Jason.
“Can I take a shower here?”
“Ah…” Jason taps a finger on the doorframe. “Guess so. Sober up but make it quick alright?”
Shay nods.
The shower is as nasty-looking as any of the ones back in his dorm, black mold creeping through the tile grout and spidering out from around the drain, but Shay can’t really muster up any actual revulsion. He can’t possibly feel more disgusting than he does right now. He turns the shower all the way to the hottest setting and steps under it. 
The water burns, scalding down his shoulders and back, but it doesn’t take away the chill that’s settled in his bones. He leans against the wall, shivering. 
He can’t remember anything about last night, but he also can’t wash off the feeling of her hands on his skin. His brain is filling in the gaps, trying to piece together what they must have done, and every new option makes him feel dirtier and more used.
He didn’t mean for this to happen. But he can’t go back.