The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TEN

As the first rays of morning sunlight, once a welcomed sight, now a cruelly intrusive irritant, sifted through the pinched pleat curtains, creating a soft, hazy atmosphere, I stirred in a state of disarray, the incessant ringing of my phone piercing the remnants of my throbbing headache like a merciless dagger, its sharp, unyielding edge slashing my head wide open. It's as if my brain, overwhelmed by the tenacious battering, is unable to process the simplest of visual stimuli.

With each passing second, the hangover tightened its uncompromising grip on my consciousness, a war between wakefulness and sleepfulness that started to claw its way back to reality, and the metallic taste of alcohol on my breath, an unpleasant reminder of last night's foolery, left a trace of regret with every exhalation.

In a groggy, painful condition, I groaned into the fluffy pillow and pleaded with a higher power to darken the room, the only healer capable of dispelling the lingering aftereffects of sloppy decision-making.

Why did I think an overconsumption of harsh liquor was a good idea? I should have declined the deadly potion of special bourbon, honey syrup and lemon juice and stuck to ice water.

Sure, from what I can vaguely remember, I felt more relaxed and less inhibited, thanks to Connie, the unqualified yet proficient mixologist, who expertly crafted a delicious cocktail menu, but enjoyable relaxation and enforced demureness only lasted a short while because impaired judgement, decreased coordination and uninhibited behaviour replaced the shoes of dignity and decorum and sent me on a wild goose chase.

With bleary eyes and parchedness of tongue, I reached for the bedside table, blindly searching for the source of the disturbance.

My fingers clumsily grasped the phone, and as I brought it to my ear, ready to answer, the harsh reality of my situation began to unravel.

My heavy eyelids, weighed down by yesterday's lies and deceit, honed in on a series of wooden cupboards, the mahogany doors, with ornate handles, slightly ajar, revealing a peek into the organised chaos within, a curated collection of men's clothing and sports footwear.

Alertness gingerly waded through the murky waters of drowsiness, and I found myself ensnared in a disorienting tangle of unfamiliarity.

A veil of bewilderment shrouded my senses, and when my surroundings, foreign and masculine, came into focus, I bolted upright on the world's comfiest king-sized bed and glared at the door in stark horror, silently begging the universe for cognisance.

Confusion suffocated me.

I struggled to piece together how I had stumbled into an unfamiliar sanctuary of pure masculinity.

The predominant colour palette, cobalt blues and earthy hues, painted the room with a tranquil ambience alongside the transparent sheet utilised as a make-do window net, but every surface—loose change, empty beer bottles, dirty plates and a precarious tower of coffee mugs—bore witness to the insurmountable chasm of disorganisation.

Once-worn clothes lay in tumultuous heaps on the floor, and jackets and T-shirts hung from door handles and bedposts as if they had given up on the notion of ever being folded or placed neatly in the wardrobe.

The huge bed, buried beneath a sprawling maze of unmade sheets, crinkled blankets and overmuch pillows, succumbed to the owner's untidiness.

At least the well-loved books, with dog-eared pages and creased spines, homed the wall-mounted shelf.

And the guy, who owned this bedroom, whoever he is, must love his cologne collection because those glass bottles of manly aromas were carefully arranged in a symmetrical fashion in a sleek, dark wood rack like a shrine of deities.