The morning after the wedding.

Sometimes people wake-up with no recollection of what happened the night before. Probing post-night questions are avoided by a shrug of the shoulders and a smile that says: “I just can’t remember”. Your friends laugh, slap you on the back and proclaim you to be the glorious party animal that you are. But in reality, when you wake-up alone with a blank space where memory used to be and you have no one to slap you on the back or laugh at how you danced on the bar or made a scene in the ladies room – it’s just not that fun.

***

An uninvited wind entered through the window, rattling the beaded curtain. The shimmering sound flipped the on-switch inside Sydney’s brain. She woke up but didn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t open her eyes. All she felt was the ebb and flow of a nagging pain beating and breaking against her skull. She heard a dull ringing as if a mosquito had been caught in her eardrum. The ringing came and went, growing louder every time it reappeared. She slowly opened her eyes, fearing she would register an unrecognizable environment but – relief. Through a colourless blur she recognized a few familiar items: the sofa she was lying on, the Andy Warhol posters on the wall and the beaded curtain, glittering in and out of focus like faraway traffic lights on a hot afternoon.

What happened to me?

Sydney sat up. The stark brightness stung her eyeballs, the ringing in her ear grew louder. She dropped her body back down on the sofa, her head fell on its side and her eyes met the mosaic coffee table. There were three empty wine bottles and a “Super-daughter” mug filled to the rim with cigarette butts. She never smoked inside.

I need to get up.

Attempt number two. She lifted her body to an upright position ignoring waves of pain that crushed her head making her feel small and vulnerable. The musty bright space was going to swallow her up. She made her way to the kitchen, eyes still not fully opened, holding on to various pieces of furniture for support. She boiled some water in the kettle, waiting with her arms leaning on the counter top, her head against the cupboard. Steam rose and she placed her head over the kettle letting the smoky water weave in and out of her pores. Her skin glowed a fierce red and she closed her eyes. Anxious thoughts sunk slowly into a still darkness, but not for long – there was a sound by the front door: a crisp white envelope had been slipped underneath.

An envelope? Most likely it would be a note from her neighbour Mr. Winkler. It would say something like:

You made too much noise. Please do not do so again. Thank you.

She picked the letter off the carpet, ignoring the surge of blood to her forehead. Immediately she realized it wasn’t a letter from Mr. Winkler. He would never write her name on the envelope, he never bothered with that, and that handwriting – it wasn’t familiar, it was strange and strict and a little scary.

T O S Y D N E Y

She opened it. The kettle released a horror movie scream. Her eyes darted to the bottom of the letter:

Petra.

Sydney muttered a “fuck”. She needed her mind to flip into the right gear, she needed to remember what had happened at Vincent’s wedding, what had she done? Why had Petra sent her a note? She waited for a flash of something, of anything, but it never came.

Sydney placed the letter on top of her bookshelf, next to piles of bills, takeaway leaflets and unpaid magazine subscriptions. She would drink her tea, shower, get dressed, brush her hair, go out and get a coffee and then, after she felt a little less like death, she’d read it and deal with whatever that scrawny handwriting contained.

Sydney made her way back to a silent but still bubbling kettle. Wasn’t there anything she remembered? The mind can’t just blank out an entire evening. She pressed her eyes shut, similar to the way she spent her childhood afternoons trying hard to levitate items in her bedroom, her alarm clock, her pencil case, her Mickey Mouse statue, just concentrate, concentrate. She could remember getting ready, putting on her red dress, drinking a few glasses of wine to calm the nerves, getting in the taxi, driving straight to the reception, skipping the ceremony and then …

Another knock.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, it’s me. We’re late.”

Sydney softly beat her head against the cupboard. Why did her sister have such bad timing?

“Come on Sydney, we’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?”

“Let me in already!”

Isabelle pushed against the door and barged in, Sydney must have forgotten to lock it last night.

“Sydney!”

“What?”

“W-what happened to you?”

Sydney suddenly realized she hadn’t checked herself in the mirror and judging by the letter, judging by the state of her apartment, judging by the pain in her head, her sister was most likely staring at a train wreck. Salty water collected in her bottom eyelid until it overflowed, dripping down her cheek with streaks of black mascara. She slapped her hand over her eyes and stood in front of her sister like an ostrich with its head in the sand.

Isabelle shuffled her feet. She wasn’t sure if she should remind Sydney that they really were going to be late for their parent’s anniversary barbecue or that she hadn’t paid for parking or if she should ask her sister why the hell she looked like a drowned Morticia Adams in a muddy red dress.

Sydney sunk to the floor like a rag doll. Sharp hiccups erupted in her throat. She took a single deep breath.

“I went to Vincent’s wedding.”

“Oh, Syd.”

Isabelle decided now was not the time to remind Sydney of their plans and the parking meter downstairs was just going to have to wait. She joined her on the floor and stroked her hair. The sisters sat very still, surrounded by a foggy cloud of steam.

This quiet moment met a violent interruption when Sydney flung herself across Isabelle’s lap. Vomit poured over the carpet like spilt wine.