My name is Rex Daniels and this is the first instalment of my pasta themed trilogy. This book explores the dangers of spaghetti and its deeper meaning throughout life. This is my first time delving into the world of pasta because I’m used to more serious topics.
~by Rex Daniels
Vomit. Disgusting rancid barf. It’s all I can smell. It’s all I can see. It’s all I can taste. It’s all I can feel. It’s all I can hear emanating from Dave’s room. My phone rings causing a bomb to be detonated within my head. The shock hits me and I claw at my sheets desperate to disarm the device. I finally touch something but realise that my new, ridiculously expensive, phone is now covered in the product of last night’s events. I wipe the screen against my fandango pink pyjamas, but it just smudges the contents of my stomach all over the phone. I just about manage to remove enough of the sick to answer the call. However, the terrible high-pitched noise of the call is replaced by something even worse, my mother’s ear-piercing scream. I try to listen, but my brain disengages, and I miss most of the lecture about my ‘over-elaborate’ way of celebrating. Frankly, she’s right because the morning after the best day of my life I’m sat in my dorm in a pool of my own sick with no recollection of the events that led me to this unfortunate point. Three years of studying and dedication with no partying, and I throw all my dignity out of the window in one night.
I feel sick of wallowing in self-pity, so summon all my strength to push myself up. As I stumble towards the door, I recognise another horrific odour but not the same one that occupied my bed. I walk through the door, feeling my nausea become even more unbearable with every step I take. Somehow, I maintain my balance but as my foot reaches the floor of the shared living quarters, I instantly regret leaving my room. David’s retching has become even louder and inevitably more unbearable. However, my focus is on the sticky substance which my foot has just landed in. I pick my foot up and inspect it but the drummer inside of my head does not let me summon enough concentration to come to a sensible conclusion. Looking down at my foot, I catch sight of a red mark that covers much of my left arm. It dawns on me that this scarlet red substance could be blood.
I start to focus on the barbaric noises coming from the room opposite me. Without a second thought, I lunge towards the maple oak door handle and twist it not knowing what to expect. Dave is in a crumpled heap next to a waste bin which he obviously abandoned after he realised there was no point in trying to protect his already worse for wear carpet. He doesn’t realise that I’m stood metres away from him. I start to ask if he remembers the night before, but he’s in no state to answer.
A white pasta dish which my mom gave to me as a moving in present, sits next to Dave. Three years of university and the only suitably nutritious meal I could ever make without risking the lives of the people in the building was spaghetti Bolognese. The same spaghetti Bolognese which was there in front of me. Everything starts to add up and it becomes clear that nobody died at my hands. A drunken mess, I had cooked a meal and burned myself in the process. I no longer feel the constant urge to be sick. All I want is spaghetti.
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