Kris looked around at white tiles, working hard to control her breathing. I’m fine, she repeated to herself. I’m fine. But she wasn’t fine. She could feel vomit pushing its way up her throat. Pressure built mercilessly behind her eyes before exploding in a spray of coke-colored chunks. Her body heaved as it violently rejected rum, hot wings, and curdled looking ranch. A kaleidoscope of regurgitated, half-digested regret swirled before her eyes as she leaned over cold porcelain and gasped for air. She heard knocking at the door and ignored it. Ocupado, bitch.
On the next fateful breath she inhaled the tiniest fleck of something. It made its way straight to the back of her throat with tickling fingers triggering another round of heaving, coughing, gasping, but Kris couldn’t catch her breath. She knew her eyes were probably going to pop out of her head and splash into the bowl at any minute, bloodshot and covered in tears. As her ribs seemed to crack with the effort of separating air from soupy liquid, one thought sprang to her mind: you can drown in a teaspoon of water. She felt bad for the poor bastard that would find her dead body, forever kneeling at a white throne.