Chapter 8

The sun's rays struggled to break through the slightly open curtains, barely illuminating the dimly lit bedroom. The clock ticked loudly, its persistent rhythm echoing somewhere deep in my mind. My languid sigh rolled through the entire room, shattering the eerie silence into tiny shards, like a crystal ball. Consciousness reluctantly began to return to me, though the last thing I wanted right now was to wake up.

Beneath my heavy, leaden body, I could feel the soft surface of the bed, which I had no desire to leave—not even for a moment. Everything felt heavy, unbearably so. A dull, throbbing pain pounded in my head, as if trying to split my skull into tiny fragments. It felt like someone had struck me with something heavy.

Suddenly, images began flashing before my eyes at lightning speed—fragments of memories that slowly pieced themselves together. Have you ever woken up abruptly in the middle of the night because of a terrible dream? That's exactly what happened to me now. But I didn't wake up from a nightmare or a bad dream—these were real memories. My eyes snapped open so suddenly that another wave of pain surged through my already tormented head, sending fresh, sharp pulses of agony.

"Shit," I rasped, my hoarse voice barely audible even to myself. My throat was dry—I was desperate for water. At that moment, I felt like a traveler lost in the desert, slowly withering away from dehydration. Instinctively, my hand clenched the bedsheet, a shiver running down my body as an unexpected chill swept over me from head to toe. Lowering my gaze, I looked at my hand—and saw something disturbingly strange. The sheet was red. A bright, scarlet red—like blood.

Panic-stricken, my gaze darted to my legs—bare. My thighs were only partially covered by a plaid shirt, far too big to be mine. Nervously licking my lips, I hesitantly took in my surroundings—this wasn't my bedroom.

"What the hell?" A surge of fear seized me, forcing me up onto my elbows as I frantically scanned the unfamiliar room, blinking repeatedly, trying to convince myself that this was just a dream. But it wasn't. This was all too real. Where the hell was I?

To the right of the bed, there was a large, fur-covered armchair. Seated in it was Mr. Gilbert, intently sketching something on a sheet of paper resting on his knee. He hadn't even noticed I was awake—at least not until my wide-eyed, panicked stare practically burned a hole through him. Only then did he lift his gaze, setting down his pencil.

"Good morning," he said, his signature mocking tone slicing through my brain like a needle, sending another fresh wave of pain crashing over me. What the hell was going on?

"Where am I?" I asked, my voice unsteady, my lips trembling as I struggled to hold his gaze, afraid to look away.

"At my place," he answered indifferently, setting the paper and pencil aside on a nightstand next to the chair, his amused eyes scanning me with irritating nonchalance. Was this some kind of joke?

"What?" My already wide eyes somehow managed to grow even larger, while my right eyebrow instinctively shot up.

"You don't remember anything, do you, Martin?" Mr. Gilbert interlocked his fingers, speaking as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. Which, in fairness, he was. "That's what happens when you drink too much. Maybe next time, you'll actually remember something."

The word "drink" seemed to act like a trigger, jump-starting my sluggish brain, running a quick search through my memory, and bringing last night's events to the surface. Sarah's offer. The club. The endless drinks. Brad…

One by one, the memories resurfaced, each more vivid than the last—some of them downright sickening. A shiver ran through me, as if I had been momentarily transported back there. But then, just as suddenly, I snapped back to the present.

"Why am I here?" I lifted my gaze to the teacher, my eyes full of confusion and some kind of… detachment?

"Because you were so drunk that I couldn't leave you there."

"Where are my clothes?" A question so ridiculous and at the same time embarrassingly suggestive that I felt a sickening knot in my stomach. At that moment, it was all that mattered to me, especially since my underwear was covered only by a men's plaid shirt, which, judging by the scent of cologne still lingering on it—despite it being impeccably washed—belonged to Mr. Gilbert.

"The alcohol you… expelled… got on your dress and jacket," Mr. Gilbert informed me delicately, his face slightly twisting in discomfort as he recalled the memory. "I had to wash them."

I noticed how his gaze flickered over me, taking in every detail in mere seconds. The shirt barely covered my thighs, and I desperately tried to pull it down to my knees. I felt, at the very least, uncomfortable. Practically naked. In front of my teacher. In his house. How humiliating. I could feel myself burning up from embarrassment. And let's not even get into what happened at the club last night. How could I have let myself get so drunk?!

"Mr. Gilbert…" I started hesitantly after a long, awkward silence, but he interrupted me:

"Oh, you can call me by my first name. After all, I've already seen you… drunk," he said in that same infuriatingly ambiguous tone, making me blush even harder. Sometimes, I curse myself for having such an overactive imagination. Where do I even come up with these things? I lowered my eyes and cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Can I have some water?"

"Of course," Mr. Gilbert responded kindly, effortlessly rising from his seat. "I'll bring it right away."

Hugging my knees to my chest, I watched him disappear through the bedroom doorway. While the biology teacher was gone, I took a moment to look around. The room was spacious, with long bluish curtains covering the windows, depicting a lone seagull soaring over the ocean. A large sliding wardrobe stood in the corner, most likely for clothing. The soft beige walls had subtle, intricate patterns that weren't noticeable from afar. It was the kind of room where anyone would feel comfortable. Anyone except me.

The bedroom door creaked open, and the biology teacher walked in slowly, carrying two glasses of water. Why two? Good question. And the answer? Hell if I know. Maybe he has a thing for even numbers.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mr. Gilbert handed me one of the glasses. I swallowed eagerly and brought it to my lips, taking a sip. But the moment the liquid hit my tongue, I realized—it wasn't water. I immediately spat it back out and shot a sharp, accusatory glare at Mr. Gilbert, which soon shifted into bewilderment.

"Now you definitely won't be drinking anymore," he said, taking the glass from my hands and handing me the second one instead. "This one is actually water."

I squinted at him suspiciously but took a cautious sip, my eyes fixed on him the whole time. This time, it was real water. No tricks.

"There," he nodded toward the wooden nightstand, crafted in some unusual style. "There are some painkillers if you need them."

Of course, Mr. Gilbert fully understood that after last night, my head wasn't just splitting—it was on the verge of exploding from the unbearable pain, making me want to whimper like a wounded animal.

Placing the glass back on the nightstand, I hesitantly reached out and opened the drawer, only to be greeted by an unpleasantly loud creak that, in my current state, felt as deafening as a jet engine. My head throbbed.

Let's see… Some kind of trinket box, a landline phone, a pile of random papers, a pack of condoms—wait, what? Yep. There was a big pack of condoms, mind you. I could feel my face flush all over again as I quickly averted my eyes. God help me. Instead, I focused on the much-needed painkillers sitting on the lowest shelf.

"Found them?" Mr. Gilbert asked, his eyes glued to his phone screen as he typed something out.

"Yeah," I murmured, pulling out the pack and popping out a pill. Finally, relief was within reach. Hopefully, the pain would subside soon. Not instantly, of course, but eventually.

Swallowing the pill and gulping down the water like I hadn't had a drink in years, I was struck by an overwhelming urge to get my clothes back. Walking around in nothing but a shirt—especially one that barely covered the essentials—in front of my own teacher was not something I wanted to prolong.

Mr. Gilbert led me to the bathroom, where my now-dry dress and beloved leather jacket lay on the warm radiator. Closing the door behind me, I turned the lock. My eyes landed on my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair was a complete mess, nowhere near the neat ponytail I had before. The dark circles under my eyes were big enough to house a family of kangaroos, and my lips were so dry that even lipstick hadn't helped.

I exhaled into my palm. Oh, hell no. Even my breath smelled awful.

Wasting no time, I started freshening up. I let my hair down, securing the hair tie around my wrist, and tried to comb through the tangled mess with my fingers—hard to do without a brush. I washed my face thoroughly, restoring some sense of alertness to my exhausted body. Then, finally, I shed the shirt and put on my own clothes. One last glance in the mirror. The hungover disaster from this morning had been somewhat contained, though the dark circles under my eyes would only disappear with a good dose of makeup.

I slowly opened the door, holding the shirt in my hands, ready to return it. Finding my way back to his bedroom, I saw that Mr. Gilbert wasn't there. I simply placed the shirt on the armchair and started rummaging through my tiny purse for my phone. Dead. Just great.

From somewhere deeper in the apartment, Mr. Gilbert called out to me. Following his voice, I found myself in the kitchen. It was just as spacious and cozy as the bedroom. He stood by the stove, casually cooking something. Soon, he placed a plate on the round wooden table—scrambled eggs with bacon. It smelled amazing.

"Want some?" he asked, nodding toward the plate, his tone light and unassuming.

"No," I blurted out abruptly, shaking my head. But my stomach had other plans. A second later, it let out a loud, volcanic growl.

"You do," Mr. Gilbert said with a knowing nod, effortlessly guiding me to sit down.

I felt incredibly awkward. Then again, I'd been feeling that way since the moment I woke up in a stranger's apartment. Well, not just any stranger—my teacher.

"Can I use your phone? Mine's dead," I asked hesitantly. "I need to call a cab."

"Oh, I'll drive you home. Don't worry," he said, making my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Just eat first… Otherwise, I won't let you leave."

The last part was meant as a joke. But, honestly? It didn't quite land.

Letting out a deep sigh, I simply nodded and began eating the quickly prepared meal. I just wanted to go home. So badly.