⚱ (Alyssa)
⚱ - my muse’s reaction to waking up to your muse, beaten by mine, but my muse has no recollection of the night before
Beauford rolled over, mouth laden with that thick, fuzzy feeling. It felt like his mouth was filled with puffed cotton balls and as soon as he moved, his head spun. There were parts of him that he didn’t even know could hurt when one was hungover and as he opened his eyes, vision burning from the light he pulled the covers over his head with a groan. There was not a chance in the world he meant to drink that much and as his hurting eyes adjusted to the dark under the covers he realized that he wasn’t actually alone. He could hear soft sobs in the distance and yet a small part of him wanted to stay unearthed in the satin covers forever. A few more moments went by as the cries continued and his curiosity and most importantly concern just seemed to get the best of him. He wrapped the covers around his body like a cocoon, picking up his heavy body with a small sigh of pain. His hands hurt the most, and if he actually took the time to look he’d have noticed the bruises that peppered his knuckles.
Beauford dragged himself out of the bedroom, attempts to locate the cries that filled the empty house. It was also at this moment when he realized he wasn’t home, either. Much rather, he was out at somebody elses. It was a strange fact to realize. Beau was never one to stay over another’s home, much less sleep in their bed without crawling home at some point in the night. He also wasn’t one to get drunk enough to the point where everything was just a pure blank slate. He looked like shit, he could just sense it, mostly because of how he felt. Every movement was sluggish and every step ached. He felt sick, the amount of alcohol still draining from his system was probably enough to stunt an ox. He found his feet dragging him to the kitchen, following the sounds of whispered cries. It was at that moment when he noticed Alyssa, his mouth suddenly went dry again, letting out an awkward exhale. Beauford was not somebody who could be good under pressure. He took another step towards her, Alyssa’s frame faced away from him, placing a hand on her slumped shoulder.
“ Alyssa? What the hell is going on? Why all the cryin’? ”
His tone was a mixture of thick concern and worry, though you could hear the sickness of the hangover thick in his voice. She practically jumped away from him, wild eyes meeting his soft green ones. She was furious, anger and fear coursing through the woman. He reached out again –
“ Look — whatever is goin’ on we can handle tha– ”
He stopped short a nauseous feeling coming over him as he noticed the black and blues that littered his knuckles. The small cuts that danced around his fragile bones. Her face was somewhat swollen and in this moment he wanted to straight up puke. Not from the hangover anymore, but at the thought off all the elements finally adding up. His body suddenly felt heavy and there was a certain moment where he just stopped, taking a step back from her. This was some type of nightmare, Beau only prayed to wake up from. Sure, Beau fit the stereotype of some flirt and some pretty boy. But laying his hands on a woman? Or anybody for that matter. Was just plain unheard of. He wanted to comfort her and apologize, though he really had no facts as if any part of this was actually happening. All he knew was that he was about to be sick and with that he turned to the kitchen sink and let it all out. The thought of hurting a woman too much.
