Hangover

My head hurts. I look around. I'm in my room. I don't remember coming home. I think about last night. The last thing that comes to mind is me hanging out with the guys. Something happened. I can't remember what, my head hurts to much.
I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. Splashing water onto my face I study my reflection. I look the same exept for the long scratch running down my face. I take a quick shower and notice more scratches on my chest.
After my shower I go downstairs for breakfast. Mother and Father are sitting at the table. I take a seat and wait for the food to be served. Father looks me over.
"What happened to your face?" He asked.
I shrugged and lied, "Scratched it on a hanger,"
Father narrows his eyes and studies me. I meet his steady gaze. Father nods once and doesn't ask any more questions. The food is served. I dig in. I'm ravenous. Mother and Father watch me. They aren't eating. I'm more than half-way finished when I raise my eyebrows at them.
"You seem depressed," I note turning into my food again. In truth they look more then depressed they look absolutely hidious.
"Haven't you read the paper?" Mother asks quietly.
I shake my head and Father passes the paper towards me. I open it up and read the headline. 'ANNE WESTIN FOUND DEAD' I stop eating and read faster. I just saw Anne two days ago. This must be a sick joke.
The paper says that Anne had been beaten to death. Her body was found on the corner of Second and Franklin. I knew the place. It was next to the pub. I had been there with the guys celebrating the up coming wedding to Anne with the guys. I should have seen her. With that thought snatches of last night pass through my head.
Peter staggering more drunk then I was.............Georgie laughing..........Anne screaming...........Charles joking that I'd have to find a new bride...........
Sick to my stomach I bolted from the table. I barely make it to the downstairs bathroom before my recent breakfast makes a reaperence. I huddle over the toliet trying not to think. I close my eyes to fight the tears. I wipe my mouth and hit the wall in frustration.
Why? Why Anne? Why had she gone down that street that night? Regret and self-pity swollow me whole...


March 15 1933: Instead of the wedding planned their is a double funarel. Anne wearing her wedding gown is in the first coffin and me in my tuxedo is in the other coffin. In the monthes that follow Peter, Georgie and Charles take their own lives as well.