(no subject)
[after this]
Agnes doesn't remember how she got back to her room. Obviously, she must have walked there, but she might as well have magically teleported for all that she recalls it. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
It seems only a moment, but the sun is high before she wakes on Sunday. In fact, that's what wakes her -- the sun beating through her eyelids like a sledgehammer. Even pulling the covers over her head doesn't abate the pounding.
Which is the oddest thing. She's never had a hangover before. Not even when she sat half the night at the bar drinking those 'kill-the-pain' -- or whatever they were called -- one right after the other. She'd gotten up the next morning without a trace of a headache and didn't give it a second thought. And last night, she barely had one glass of wine. Right? She only remembers the one, but then, most of the night sort of became a blur.
Keeping her eyes closed seems to blot out the worst of the pain, so Agnes does so, fishing the hairbrush out of the bedside drawer. She doesn't need to see to know that her hair is tangled and knotted, nor does she need to see to get them out, so eyes closed works all around. While she sits on the side of the bed and works the tangles out, she catches herself humming. The tune is (Carmen) something she doesn't remember ever hearing, but if she focuses on the melody, she can almost catch the libretto buzzing in the back of her mind as well. Agnes frowns. She's never been unable to recall words or music before. She must really not have been paying attention while it was playing. Wherever it was playing.
Brushing finished, she gropes for the drawer to replace the brush. Three tries net her only empty air, so she forces her eyes open a crack to locate the nightstand. It's only then that something about the brush catches her eye. Among the dark bristles, something bright seems to glisten, caught by the sun through the window. When Agnes turns the brush to look, other light strands are highlighted by the sunlight. It takes some work, but eventually she's able to catch one of them and pull it out. A long, blonde hair -- several of them, in fact -- had worked its way into her brush.
"What kind of a burglar would come into my room, take nothing, and use my hairbrush," she wonders aloud, still not over the novelty of knowing she won't receive an answer. Unfortunately, in this case, she would rather have liked one. Because the obvious one was not something she wanted to entertain.
Almost against her will, her head begins to turn toward the mirror over the dresser. Her eyes won't believe it right away. They blink several times involuntarily. But every time they open, the reflection remains the same.
Her face. Blonde hair. Patchy near the top of her head, where the black can still be seen in the roots, but for the most part, blonde. Agnes slowly lifts a hand to it, pulling it through her fingers and looking down at what she can see.
Only then do the events of the previous evening come flooding back to her.
(No, it isn't safe anywhere.)
(I think you would make a lovely blonde.)
(You're going to have roots showing.)
(I would hate for you to get sick and vomit all over my couch.)
She makes it just inside the bathroom door before she falls to her knees, retching.
Agnes doesn't remember how she got back to her room. Obviously, she must have walked there, but she might as well have magically teleported for all that she recalls it. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
It seems only a moment, but the sun is high before she wakes on Sunday. In fact, that's what wakes her -- the sun beating through her eyelids like a sledgehammer. Even pulling the covers over her head doesn't abate the pounding.
Which is the oddest thing. She's never had a hangover before. Not even when she sat half the night at the bar drinking those 'kill-the-pain' -- or whatever they were called -- one right after the other. She'd gotten up the next morning without a trace of a headache and didn't give it a second thought. And last night, she barely had one glass of wine. Right? She only remembers the one, but then, most of the night sort of became a blur.
Keeping her eyes closed seems to blot out the worst of the pain, so Agnes does so, fishing the hairbrush out of the bedside drawer. She doesn't need to see to know that her hair is tangled and knotted, nor does she need to see to get them out, so eyes closed works all around. While she sits on the side of the bed and works the tangles out, she catches herself humming. The tune is (Carmen) something she doesn't remember ever hearing, but if she focuses on the melody, she can almost catch the libretto buzzing in the back of her mind as well. Agnes frowns. She's never been unable to recall words or music before. She must really not have been paying attention while it was playing. Wherever it was playing.
Brushing finished, she gropes for the drawer to replace the brush. Three tries net her only empty air, so she forces her eyes open a crack to locate the nightstand. It's only then that something about the brush catches her eye. Among the dark bristles, something bright seems to glisten, caught by the sun through the window. When Agnes turns the brush to look, other light strands are highlighted by the sunlight. It takes some work, but eventually she's able to catch one of them and pull it out. A long, blonde hair -- several of them, in fact -- had worked its way into her brush.
"What kind of a burglar would come into my room, take nothing, and use my hairbrush," she wonders aloud, still not over the novelty of knowing she won't receive an answer. Unfortunately, in this case, she would rather have liked one. Because the obvious one was not something she wanted to entertain.
Almost against her will, her head begins to turn toward the mirror over the dresser. Her eyes won't believe it right away. They blink several times involuntarily. But every time they open, the reflection remains the same.
Her face. Blonde hair. Patchy near the top of her head, where the black can still be seen in the roots, but for the most part, blonde. Agnes slowly lifts a hand to it, pulling it through her fingers and looking down at what she can see.
Only then do the events of the previous evening come flooding back to her.
(No, it isn't safe anywhere.)
(I think you would make a lovely blonde.)
(You're going to have roots showing.)
(I would hate for you to get sick and vomit all over my couch.)
She makes it just inside the bathroom door before she falls to her knees, retching.