He says it to an empty room. It echoes in his head, hollow, dull, plaintive. He feels it ring dim against his temples and into his eye sockets. He doesn't remember crying, but the tightness in his sinuses tells him he's got something stopped up in the works, something very displeased with his current cold, ceramic mattress.
He's on the floor again. Again. This must be the third time this week. Third? Yes, three. Two trips out, a club and a very, very dirty bar, a girl with pierced nipples...Oh, four. There was a forth in there, an after party. When was that again?
No, that was last week. This is Sunday. Raw is tomorrow night.
He scoffs. When did that matter? It feels like ages ago now.
Scoffing makes his head rise imperceptibly from the floor, but the exhalation brings his temple back to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.
Fuck. That hurts like a mother-bitch.
Two hands press hard into the floor, palms boiling against the icy white slick of the bathroom floor. He feels reassurance as his arms flex and lift him slowly, almost as if he's planking, straight off the floor. His knees buckle and crack against the hard surface, but he's glad for the pain. It balances him, brings him back a little more, negates the throbbing tumble in his gutt and his mind.
Where is this?
He steadies himself against a plain white vanity, a floating mass of marble or mica or some sort of very fancy, who-gives-a-damn 'm' composite that must be worth something, because it can bear his weight as he leans his body into its seemingly floating mass.
There's a toilet to his left. Thank God for small miracles. It's there, he's there, and nobody seems to have missed it during the night, so no matter how messed up he's been, he at least was a tidy house guest. Floor guest. Whatever.
He lurches upward, his head swims and he barely is able to twist like a disgruntled, constapated ballerina before crashing back down. Score. Good aim, Nero. Good on ya and all that.
Fuck, someone is knocking.
Tapping, really. It's an apologetic sound, gentle but insistant, a little tempermental. There's no urgency, but he knows it's a nosey, annoyed rap. It just has that /tone/ to it.
"Jussa minute," he slurs, not meaning to. Damn, what the hell did he have? Seriously, what the hell did he drink? He remembers a very, very sexy pair of tits, a tight white shirt, two shots, three, maybe five...
"Can you get the hell out of my bathroom?"
Shit. He could just shit himself. Just-
Wait, nevermind. Inappropriate bathroom humor only makes sense when he's not already there. But really, honestly, really? C'mon God, he thinks, what're you playing at? Did I really do something that awful? I didn't sleep with a nun. I didn't fuck a priest. I mean, not that I know of. And hell, if that's how everyone at the monastery gives head, then damn, You must be pretty fucking selfish to keep all that for yourself, but I feel You, man-
"Jeff."
Fuck. So Phil's feeling self-righteous. Wait, no, Phil just feels like PHIL. Fuck that noise. Fuck him, fuck his straight-edge bullshit. Fuck his vindictive, prissy little vendetas. What the fuck does he have going on that's such hot shit, anyway? A title he couldn't keep? A rivalry that leaves him totally one-sided? At least when it was him and Punk, there was tension. There was chemistry. They had something, something the fans ate up by the fistfulls. It was a real work, what they had going, and it was fucking brilliant, until Punk went and fucking ruined it-
"Jeff, seriously. Are you okay, man?"
He rolls his eyes. Thanks, mom, but I'm abso-fucking-lutely fine. Except for what seems to apparently be a bloody nose, and isn't that weird and unexpected, now that he notices the trail of dried blood leading from his left nostril, across the peak and crease of his lips and down past his jaw line. When did he get punched in the face...?
"Yeah."
Damn. That's a croak if ever there was one. His throat is raw, he notices, as if he's been trapped in a desert for days. It burns a little as he swallows, an out of place sensation of thickness, or fullness, he can't quite clear from his throat.
"I'm okay. I'm cool. I'm fine."
"You sure? You need anything?"
"Nah, I'm...good. Cool. I'm fine."
"Okay, because that's a lot of adjectives and not a lot of explanation. You sure you're alright?"
"Phillip," he says, suddenly finding his hips are quite good at pivoting his spine but not the best form of support suddenly. He sways, grabbing at that ridiculous floating-sink thing and scrabbling across the top surface. It's too broad at its face. His fingers can't wrap around it in any way that provide purchase. and now his bile is rising, like a tsunami of a week's worth of low tides. He supresses a belch and steadies himself, grasping at his faculties like bloody straw through outstretched fingers.
Blood? His nose. Right.
"Phillip," he repeats, "I don't fucking know."