Page 7 of The Very First Night

Light, sharp as a knife, slants through the blinds and illuminates the room. The new day bursts into the space, yelling a clear sign of its arrival. Every cell in my body aches for the comfort of sleep; my eyes hurt from trying to adjust to the brightness. The constant spinning has me ready to heave off the side of the bed, the slightest movement teetering me a little too close to revisiting last night’s dinner.

When my queasiness becomes insufferable, I reach for the trash can next to the bed, thankful that I had the foresight to put it there before I laid down last night. I continue feeling around until my hand bumps into the plastic bin beneath all the blankets and throw pillows. I groan before I pitch forward and barf much like Jenna did freshman year in the middle of the Manchester Hall common room.

I heave and I heave, the choices of last night a blur amidst the morning haze.

Wait.

I’m not in my hotel room.

While I’m not sure where I am, it feels weirdly familiar and uncomfortably quiet. I wipe my mouth as I gaze around the room, the space feeling eerily sterile, but with clear attempts at making it feel like home peppered throughout. The cream walls barely poke through the collage of posters littering the space—everything from Taylor Swift’s 1989 world tour poster to a large print from one of my favorite photographers.

The room looks exactly how it did five years ago, right down to the unmade bed and pile of textbooks on the floor.

Overwhelming panic consumes me as I come to the realization that I am back in my past self’s body.

My heart races uncontrollably, pounding against my rib cage with each beat, the sound reverberating in my ears. My body shakes violently, making it difficult to take a deep breath and steady myself. The world around me seems to spin out of control as I desperately try to make sense of this confusing and disorienting situation.

I’m in my junior dorm room.

How the hell am I back at McDowell Hall? There is no way this is physically possible. Not only was I a full forty minutes from Kent last night, but I can’t imagine I stumbled upon a dorm room at Beall-McDowell with the exact setup Jenna and I created five years ago.

I gaze around the space, the door connecting my bedroom to the shared bathroom a welcome salvation as I feel last night’s choices crawling back up my throat with vengeance. I dart toward the toilet, landing on the tile floor with less than a second to spare.

Time blurs. Through long passes of heaving and gagging, I faintly hear the sound of a door clicking shut from the direction of Jenna’s bedroom.

Memories of last night in the future and last night in the past start to flow together, images of dancing with Tanner at a historic hotel in Cleveland meshing messily with faint memories of playing Slap the Bag at one of the sorority annexes with Jenna’s friend Molly. It’s a bizarre medley of past and future, and yet they seem just as recent as one another despite being five years apart.

The old hinge on the door creaks as Jenna enters the bathroom from her side of the space.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks before reaching for a makeup wipe off the counter, only waiting a few seconds before she continues her train of thought. “It’s probably all the sugar from the wine last night. We probably should stop playing Slap the Bag—I think we’re getting too old.”

The age-old game of chugging from a bag of cheap wine taken out of a boxed receptacle was among mine and Jenna’s favorite games to play on a Friday night. Well, is, I guess.

For a moment I think about pretending to be okay, but instead opt for honesty. “No, I feel like shit. You’re probably right,” I mumble as the taste of bile crawls back up my throat.

Jenna rushes toward me at the exact moment my face plunges back into the toilet bowl, her hands cupping my long brown hair in a ball at the base of my scalp.

We continue like this for about ten minutes before my back is flush with the wall, the cold bite of the tile a welcome comfort, the sweat from the exertion cooling against my skin. I’ve always been a morning puker and I hate it. I still have no idea why I continue to break every rule of drinking.

Don’t overindulge in sugary beverages, don’t mix beer and liquor, don’t mix beer and wine, don’t mix dark and clear liquor… So many rules, none of which I’ve ever diligently adhered to. I can’t tell if it’s the severe dehydration from drinking last night or the fact that my head hasn’t stopped spinning since waking up somehow in the past, but I clearly need to get that under control if I stand any chance at not having Jenna think I’m batshit insane right now.

“How did you get home last night?” Jenna asks as she hands me a bottle of water from the counter, one I faintly remember setting there as I stumbled in last night.

“I—” I think for a moment, the memories a haze. “I walked back to campus.”

“By yourself? Kat, that isn’t safe.”

“I’m fine, aren’t I?”

Jenna seems to find this response annoying. She rolls her eyes.

“What did you get up to after I left last night?” I raise a brow, the implication of her sneaking back into our dorm in the morning not lost on me.

“I…met a guy,” Jenna replies as she grins from ear to ear.

Memories of what has yet to happen are getting hazier and hazier as the moments pass by, but I’m still aware enough to remember that last night was Friday of welcome weekend. The night she met Marcus.

“A guy, huh?”

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