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Noximist.com: It's Funner in Here! I'm Articulate, so I'm Allowed to Say These Things.

A Chunk of Untitled Novella

(2002-2003; this was intended to become a novella, and maybe it will someday, because it still intrigues me)
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The speed at which a bathroom can rotate has baffled leading scientists for decades. With the toilet completing a full orbit every two and a half seconds, and the checkered rug slithering about so rapidly that it blurred into a uniform shade of slate grey, it is no wonder that Eliana felt so very ill. She clung desperately to the towel rack just above the porcelain tank, dropping her moans into the bowl with her half-closed eyes rolled back toward the ceiling. At the rate of nearly four moans per minute, her misery measured high on the hangover scale, indeed. Where are you going, and what do you wish? she asked herself, recalling childhood rhymes with the randomness common at such a moment, but could think of no answer.

The night before was a haze of dance and vomit, tinted the sickly orange of streetlights and scented with the musk of wet spring soil. They had left the youth group meeting at 21h, and Jay had arrived at the park not long after - but beyond the pouring of the first drinks, her memory had nothing to contribute. Brief scenes cut jaggedly from an invisible, oceanic whole appeared as she searched, but they answered little: dizziness, cheerfully malicious laughter at her slurred words, waves of trees blending into slabs of shadowed brown and green as she ran. She left the party early, she knows that, but could remember absolutely nothing about where she went. Home? I can only hope. Jay hadn't thought so when she stumbled down to the kitchen to ask, however; he'd been in at 2h, and jokingly noted the absence of retching in the bathroom. Damn hangover... damn vodka! Probably left a trail of piss and puke between the park and wherever - isn't that ladylike? What a fool you are, El.






Good lord, is there no life here at all? Bad enough that the room was a chamber of death; worse still that their best efforts to disguise the fact were so inadequate. Walls splashed a faded pink, adorned with exquisite reproductions of mediocre art, bordered with the framed, smiling faces of... who? Satisfied customers? What a sick joke that would be. No coat of paint could hide the hanging scent of antiseptic, so thick it was almost visible, nor blot out the damning, painful silence. Even her heart seemed afraid to pound.

The IV in her arm itched maddeningly, but she clung to the sensation rather than ignoring it, allowing it to dominate her consciousness so that nothing else could. Footsteps echoed in from outside, but the new sound added nothing to the atmosphere; it represented too much approaching pain. Good lord, indeed; she reflected, that's a sick joke, too.
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