The Flower
Mind Games - Sickick
The morning sun from my window hits my eyes just right, and I groan.
My head is pounding. I only had a few drinks last night.
All I want to do is rot in bed, but I can't. Z and I own a dance studio where we hold classes three times a week apart from our day job.
Today is one of those days, and I am now rethinking every decision I've ever made.
We primarily teach hip hop and heels, but we do like to add in a mixture of all different types. Dancing has always been a love of mine. It's been an outlet for me. Therapeutic, helping to release emotions, and a workout? It’s the best. I'm just lucky I found someone who loves it as much as I do.
Z and I opened our studio a few years back, and our classes are always fully booked.
It's insane how quickly we grew, with just the two of us promoting ourselves. We hadn’t realized just how much this side of the city needed a dance studio.
Sundays are our full class days. We hold two: one at noon and one in the evening. Can you guess what day today is?
My eyes widen and I look over to see 10 a.m. displayed on my phone screen. “Shit!”
I have to be at the studio in an hour! Did I sleep through my alarm? This isn’t like me. I can’t even recall the last time I slept through an alarm. I swear I’m never drinking again.
I quickly sit up, and the room starts spinning. Little swirls of color frame the outside of my eyesight, making a sickness creep up my throat. There's water on my nightstand that I don’t remember putting there. Then again, I don't even remember how I got home.
My lips reach the rim of the glass, chugging the clear, room-temperature liquid. This tastes like the best fucking water I’ve ever had in my life. Great, that means I am also dehydrated.
What a way to start the day, Dahlia. Way to go.
As my body takes a moment to comprehend that I’m about to stand, I stumble, barely catching myself, and reach for the nightstand before I face-plant onto the floor. The last thing I need is to have a concussion before class. R.I.P. Dahlia—died from lightweight syndrome. The most pathetic headstone.
The reflection staring back at me looks daunting, like she's never seen the light of day before. Disheveled, to put it lightly—give me the ring, my precious—to put it harshly. The harsh light of the bathroom makes it all the worse. I rinse my face, hoping to wash away any evidence of my night of drinking. No luck. I need to hurry—I am running way late, and Z will have my head if I’m not there before class starts.
I rush to put on my sweats and a T-shirt.
Then, I make my way to the kitchen to grab a snack before I head to the studio.
Opening the refrigerator, I swear a tumbleweed roll by.
Groaning, I close the fridge and look at the bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, contemplating if a small apple will be enough.
A black envelope, neatly placed next to the bowl, catches my eye. A lone dahlia flower accompanies it.
What the?
I circle the corner of the island and lean over, grabbing the envelope. It has my name written in the center. I turn it over and rip it open, looking at its contents. There's a piece of paper and a polaroid picture. My eyes furrow in confusion as I flip over the photo.
Oh my god.
The paper falls from my hands, comprehension hurtling through my mind as I try to make sense of what the hell I just saw. It’s… it’s a picture of me. A fucking picture of me. Sleeping with my nightgown halfway hiked up to my hips.
Who would—what the actual fuck?
With shaking hands, I pick the piece of paper back up and read the note that is attached.