Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound reverberated through my alcohol soaked brain. Insistent and annoying, it couldn’t be ignored anymore. My brittle eyelashes exploded dried mascara across the white pillow cases reeking of cigarette smoke and alcohol dribble; probably mine.
A groan escapes my parched throat as a thousand drills set to work across synapses in my brain; the effort of sitting up drawing the chomping headache closer to a nauseous state as things drift in and out of focus. Brown duvet, the colour of dirty mud. Ugly retro furniture scattered across a minuscule bedroom suffocating from IKEA throwbacks that were as mismatched as my brain functions. Eww, was that the smell of vomit? I search around for my mobile and touch a warm body buried under the mud duvet. It moans and a burp escapes its neandatholic shape, accompanied by a hairy hand scratching a naked exposed butt cheek. Nausea was reaching a critical point as I tried to piece together the night before.