BLOOD AND GLITTER COAT MY FINGERTIPS.

Diamonds of Death, glinting in a din darkness, drug-fueled delusions of The Morning After. My brain foggy. My body throbbing. Blood. Glitter. Skin. I blink. I... blink. Nothing fading. Nothing disappearing or appearing. Unknown chaos de Halloween. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Spinning.

No, no. I'd been here.

My hands twist, a rusty blur, cut by butterfly lashes fluttering in a blind panic, and I barely hear myself—a whimper unravels somewhere deep in my throat, rips at my vocal chords violently.

I scream.

♛

Everything is wrong, vibrating. Blood. Darkness blots my vision. It's all a vague haze of hyperventilating, drunk, disorderly, bumbling bullshit I'd sworn I wouldn't stoop to again. My coordination fucked by a pounding drum behind my forehead, cymbals clashing, aching pangs, stiffness in my joints—undoubtedly, hopelessly, sickeningly hungover again.

Jesus, why? Where am I?

Acid spills to my lips. Bile crawls up as I sit... up. My fingers falling to a pleated skirt I remember putting on, its soft fabric crusted in dry blood, frayed edges; a slit up my thigh, road-ripped fishnets; skin scuffed gravelly, grimy. I... I'd probably fallen.

I'd learned to guess. I'd relinquished responsibility of myself. When I wake up disoriented and dizzy, belching Modelo, reeking of Newports. Menthols. I want to crawl inside myself, curl up, understand it: Who'd you fuck? What'd you do? Where'd you go? Where are you? Who are you? What are you doing?

A shower liner draping down, damp, foggy, moldy plastic on my bare legs. I fumble, grasping, wincing. Fuck. My knees and elbows burn, an uncomfortably hot flash, rubbed raw, knobbing around in a dirty bathtub. My foot is asleep. Boots squeaking as I hoist myself up. A fuzzy spell boomerangs, and I loll, groaning lowly as I yank; a trinketing of rings popping and plastic crinkling down quietly.

Light pours in from a bulb overhead, head-achingly blazing, a bright tear in my bleary vision. Pang. Ow. I wince again, rearing away, blinking it off, adjusting to a barren, barely lit bathroom. Everything is diluted-dark. My head swims as I steady myself.

Silence.

Where...

Nausea wracks my gaze skittishly. Alone. Tags. It's a brimming onslaught of graffiti, a skirt I'd vaguely loved—hitched up, dirty, bloody, glitter clinging to reddish-brown hues—and I don't know where the fuck I am. Harlem? Red Hook? Jersey?

Panic spikes in a delay. Knots in my chest cinching. No. No. I'm lagging. I'm hyperventilating again, hiccuping, jarringly off, as I buckle halfheartedly. My bloody palm print on the lip of a porcelain bathtub, elbow jackknifing as if I'd been burned; a sticky stamp is smudged on the top of my hand. Darkness skews. Everything slurs. I pull back, curling my fingers into fists, and I—

I draw a ragged breath at the feeling the feeling the fucking feeling of lukewarm liquid pooling into crevices, flakes crusting under my fingernails. Hesitantly, I let myself look again: a blurry, light pink hue of rosé glitter glinting, grotesquely brown-bloody—

What did I do?

"Here's to a weird and wild Halloween!"

Precipices cutting off—shot glasses clinking, Cardi B blasting, cloudy, smoky, dusky, passing Betty, coughing it out, half-burned cigarettes, salt, tequila, lime and Guillermo—before I'd left with June for...

"I want to get fucked uuuuuup."

"I am so fucked already."

My fucking head, Jesus. A violent reel of June and I pregaming, hazy plans, shit about a band playing a Halloween party, off... off the J, underground, grunge, noise, something... somewhere... somewhere...

It was just a party. It was always just a party.

Wait. Where is June?

"June...?" I croak, licking my dry lips—a minty residual aftertaste, somebody's loose Newports I'd probably stolen. (God, I hate myself.) Nausea churning up my gut as I sway. June and I, laughing, stumbling down... down Broadway? June and I... going...

I don't fucking remember.

Did June really leave me? Let me crash in a fucking bathtub in some sketchy dive in Brooklyn? Lower Manhattan? Queens?

Handwriting. I squint at a scratchy scrawl of Sharpie on the lip of the tub, so close to my own palm print I consider it an omen.

everythig is not ok

No, it's...

Is June okay? Had I left her?

Nervously, I straighten, but before I can decide to do anything, a wobbly buzz guides my gaze to the scuffed, sticky tiled floor; I see it, hear it, warbling, rumbling softly, shortly.

My starry-cased iPhone.

Who's fucking with you?

Instinct attacks, and I lurch. I clobber up over a heap of plastic, hike myself up, and I tug my dress down, down, as I drop, netting biting into my knees upon impact. I wince, snatching my iPhone shakily. I need to call for help, call somebody, go, find out... what... what happened–

Suddenly, I still.

My blood runs icy hot. I corkscrew my hand slowly. Light flitting across raw, reddened flesh, framed by dry, crusted pinpricks of blood, I feel myself lilt. Ink—on the inside of my wrist—imperfectly punctured into a tiny tattoo of a heart.

Chelsea.

Chelsea is fucking with you.

Chelsea didn't... Chelsea wasn't...

What?

Inhale. Exhale. Calmly. Deeply.

My head is heavy, droops as I peer down again. 07:03. Notifications piled up. Instagram. Tik Tok. Snapchat. Messages. Missed Calls.

Blood smears across my screen as I tap blindly. Everything expands, fogs up, prompting for a fingerprint, and as I drag my thumb to it, I ignore a bloody smudge, press firmly.

Bzz. Nothing opens.

It flashes, flicks for a Passcode.

Ingresa el código.
Se requiere tu código para activar Touch ID.

0-8-1-7

Nada.

It doesn't work.

Fuck, did I change it?

No. No, I... Frantically, I scrub my screen, scrub my thumb on my skirt, trying... again. I tap my thumb. Everything falls open abruptly, and I sigh when I catch its faint icon: Instagram flooding up in Dark Mode. @ChelseainChelsea mentioned you in their Story. 5 hours ago.

Chelsea?

Uneasily, I tap my thumb again.

Dark. Blurry. Everything faded. Laughter is faint, warped. It's shaky, jittery, botched audio of clanging and banging, yelling, a janky show somewhere in Brooklyn. There's a cloudy purple haze over a sea of silhouettes, and I don't see myself. I can't catch myself. Quick. Jagged. Fragmented. Someone is dancing.... drinking...
Someone else is kissing, or I...

It flits away. Her last Story. 5 hours ago?

I was with Chelsea?

I try to tap back, swipe back, but I catch her gaze, and I pause. Another dimly backlit Story, but of... Chelsea. Fucking Chelsea. 5 hours ago. Her dizzy grin and drunken giggle. Ditzy. On brand for her.

"Aha, I hacked your Instagram!" Chels is snickering, very 2007 Facebook. "Kidding, I took your phone for a bit, babe..." Her voice rasps, goes silky low. "Since you're... you know... " Chelsea blows a kiss playfully, before peering over her shoulder, opening up a glimpse of sky; a dash filling, cutting her Story off prematurely.
Chelsea had my...

My handle in the top left corner, and a red-eyed blur of a long-lost photograph from July. It is my Story.

I don't remember seeing her, I didn't... I hadn't seen Chelsea since... I don't even...

"IloveNewYork!" A deep, raspy yell muffling as Chels echoes:  "I love New York!"

It jumps like a scratched CD skips, ripping away. Gaps.

"Nolaaaaa," Chels is whining quietly. Yet another Story. Her hair whisked up in a blustery breeze, a slant of rooftops behind her. Tripping. In. Out. Her make-up a glittery-gold fringe contouring her pale cheekbones. Her dark lashes. Her glossy lips and glassy gaze. "I'm, like, so drunk I'm numb, Nola. I want IHOP. Let's go get IHOP. Like, I've..." IHOP? How trashed was Chelsea? "I've... I've seriously missed yo—"

A shout scuffs her audio off, and Chelsea jolts, angling up and away, freezing on a dark, cluttered, low-lying skyline of Brooklyn. Warehouses.

"What? What? Is he..."

The Story descending, spinning, spiraling, down, down, down a staircase, into a chaotic blur. Noise. Cursing. Voices. Voices.

My iPhone freeze-flashing. Low Battery. 1%.

"No, no, no."

And... Instagram collapses.

Fuuuuuck. Seriously?

Desperately, I swipe again, and I catch a glitched glimpse—a slew of Unread Messages. From Chels.

answer me          02:06
i'm sorry              02:14
where r u?          02:19
ur suppose t       Hace 3 h
help me i'm        Hace 2 h