PROMPT: In my pocket, I have a candy wrapper, a ticket stub, and my friend’s debit card. I don’t know where I am, why I am here, or how I got here.
Struggling to open my eyes, I felt as if an angry woodpecker were drilling inside my head. I had never experienced a headache this severe. When I tried to sit up, the room spun around me, resisting my efforts. My thoughts were jumbled, and memories of the previous night fought to surface. Glancing around, I realized this wasn’t my room but a living room scattered with remnants of last night’s festivities. Confetti littered the floor, empty bottles covered every surface, and the TV flickered with a paused movie, frozen in time like my fragmented memories. It was my friend’s 23rd birthday party, and judging by the mess, we’d celebrated hard.
I made my way through the house, faint echoes of music from last night’s party still ringing in my ears. I stepped gingerly over the bodies of other intoxicated students sprawled on the floor, each lost in an alcohol-induced sleep. With a pounding headache and confusion clouding my mind, I clutched the items in my pocket as if they were lifelines: a candy wrapper, a ticket stub, and my friend’s debit card.
Moving carefully through the chaos, I tried to piece together my memories. The candy wrapper sparked a faint recollection of sharing sweets with friends. The ticket stub hinted at the excitement of entering the venue, but beyond that, my memory was a blur. I scanned the room, hoping to find something that would help me make sense of the situation. The sight of my friends scattered on the floor brought a mix of relief and concern. At least I wasn’t alone, but the question of why we were all in this state nagged at me.
When I reached the kitchen, I was met with more mess. Empty pizza boxes, half-eaten snacks, and overturned chairs were strewn across the floor. The stale smell of alcohol mingled with the faint aroma of burnt toast. My headache throbbed like a rogue drummer at a rock concert. I leaned against the kitchen counter for support, its cold surface a welcome relief against my clammy skin. Pulling out my friend’s debit card, I examined it as though it might reveal my missing memories. “Alright,” I muttered, squinting at the card as if it held answers in invisible ink. “Why do I have this?”
I pushed myself to recall more of the night before. It was a blur of neon lights, pulsing music, and questionable choices. But why did I have my friend’s card? Did we go on a late-night shopping spree for party supplies? Or play an impromptu game of “Who can spend the most money in one night” and then forget? I shook my head, dismissing these wild theories. “No, knowing us, it was probably something even more ridiculous,” I chuckled, the sound hollow in the empty kitchen.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced. A conversation replayed in my mind—a plan formed amid laughter and excitement. We had decided to go on a late-night snack run after the birthday celebration, pooling our resources for a grand feast to end the evening. And I, ever reliable, had been entrusted with my friend’s debit card for safekeeping. A wave of relief washed over me as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. I hadn’t taken my friend’s card in a drunken haze; I was just fulfilling my role as the responsible one in the group.
A wave of relief settled in my chest, but it was short-lived as I glanced around the chaotic kitchen again. The quiet was almost suffocating, broken only by the soft snoring of friends in the next room. I took a deep breath and filled a glass with cold water, the coolness soothing my dry throat.
As I sipped, I heard a soft groan behind me. Turning, I saw my friend Mira rubbing her eyes as she leaned against the doorframe, her hair tangled and mascara smudged. “Morning,” she croaked, a weak smile breaking through her exhaustion. “What time is it?”
“Not sure,” I replied, setting down the glass. “Do you remember anything about last night? Why I ended up with your debit card?”
Mira’s eyes widened as she pieced it together, a flash of recognition lighting up her face. “Oh, right! The snack run! We were all starving after the party, and you insisted on managing the money because, well… you’re the ‘responsible one,’” she said, air-quoting with a playful smirk.
“Of course,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. The label felt both reassuring and burdensome, but it made sense now. We both chuckled, the shared memory easing the tension of the morning.
“Did we actually make it to the store?” I asked, only half-joking.
Mira’s smile faltered as she looked past me at the half-eaten snacks and empty pizza boxes. “Yeah, we did,” she said slowly. “We got into a debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, and we might have accidentally ordered five different kinds just to prove a point.”
The absurdity of it hit me, and a laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. It was contagious—Mira joined in, and soon we were doubled over, laughing until our sides ached. The laughter stirred a few groans from the other room, and slowly, a couple of our friends began to stir, blinking awake and taking in the mess with the same bewilderment I had felt earlier.
Groans turned to chuckles as the group started to rise, stretching and shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The confusion of the morning slowly morphed into shared stories and knowing glances, each memory adding a new piece to the night’s mosaic.
It wasn’t long before we were all in the kitchen, picking up trash and playfully arguing over who was responsible for the mess. At that moment, standing among my friends with sunlight starting to filter through the curtains, I knew we’d be okay.
