Trashed

“What in the hell happened last night?” she asked herself, while standing in her utterly trashed living room.  She remembered throwing the party...but she couldn't remember what happened at the party.  There were beer cans, beer bottles, cigarette butts, joint butts half empty bags of chips all, all over the floor. 
         “Whatever...I'll clean it up later.”  she made her way to the kitchen, which was trashed as well.  As she opened the refrigerator door she began to remember the events of the previous night.  Little things like taking a couple hits off a joint that had been passed around in a little circle on the kitchen floor, and taking tequila shots even though she hated tequila. 

         She grabbed a half full bottle of orange juice from the fridge, opened it and took a little sip.  She placed it on the table when she realized that she had to do laundry.  Reason being, she recalled throwing up on herself the night before, then taking her clothes off, throwing them on the bathroom floor, and running around in her underwear for the rest of the night.  Shortly after that everyone decided that for the remainder of the party ALL of the guests should strip down to their underwear, and that it would be “THE nude part of the year!”  she smirked a bit and walked into the bathroom.

         Sure enough, her vomit coated tank top and jeans were lying on the bathroom floor.  As she picked them up and put them in her laundry crate she noticed a large crack in the side of the crate covered in blood, which triggered another memory.  After the majority of the crowd had freed themselves, so to speak, Tim, a friend of hers' started to come on to her.  Like she cared...they had been friends for years, and every time they were both single at the same time, the would sleep together.  Nik, her current boyfriend, however, did care.  They had been dating for almost a year, and he never really liked Tim. The two of them wound up fighting, and Tim won.  This caused a fight between Nik and his carefree spouse.  Nik stormed out of the house in a fit of rage, and she continued to party. 
         “I should probably call him.”  she said to herself, picking up her crate.  As she walked to the garage, carefully attempting not to step on any broken glass, she spotted a small bit of blood on her sofa.           
         “That really was a bad fight.”  She set the basket down on the floor in front of the garage, and unlocked the door.  She picked her crate up, turned the light on, and gasped at what she saw on the floor in front of her: Tim's lifeless body in a small pool of blood.  It looked like someone had struck him repeatedly on the back of the head.  She looked down at the crate in her hands, and on the crack, and noted the blood.  She holding the murder weapon.  She immediately dropped the crate and moved closer to the body.  She huffed a bit and said, “Well...I really should call Nik.”