The next time Dina rose out of sleep she felt an unpleasant, urgent pressure just below her tummy: she needed to go to the toilet. I must, must, must get up, no matter how sick I am, she thought fuzzily.

She gathered the strength to sit up and put her feet down on the floor, but as soon as she was upright the room seemed to start whirling around terrifyingly, uncontrollably. Before she could lie down again an unstoppable wave of nausea pushed though her. Her stomach contracted in a painful spasm and vomit spewed out, right onto the special shaggy rug Ma had bought for her when she came here to varsity.

Once her gut was empty the spinning slowed and stopped and she felt slightly better.

Maybe I have food poisoning? she wondered miserably. She tried to recall what she ate last night, but couldn’t remember eating anything at all. She remained sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her head in her hands, gagging every now and then at the sight and smell of the vomit.

Eventually Dina raised her head slowly and looked round blearily. That was odd: her jacket – her special party jacket – was hung messily over the back of her chair. Dina was a neat freak and never left her clothes out. One red Superga tackie was on the floor, next to the chair. Where was the other one?

She became aware of an unfamiliar feeling underfoot and looked down. Underneath and all around her feet, next to her bed, was sprinkled sand. Beach sand. And now she felt roughness on her scalp under her fingers – her hair was full of sand.

Ah! She managed a small smile, remembering: the beach bash! It had been a fat party to end all parties! Back came the memory of the shots they had all had right here in her room before they left. Sure enough – there was the half-full vodka bottle on her desk. She remembered the raucous fun of the taxi ride with all the other students, singing and waving their party supplies.

Flashes came back: the singing along to the hot hit songs played on phones, the crazy jokes and laughing, the flirting, the BBMing, the posing and pouting for photos and posting them. Enjoying the envious “Wish I waz there’s!” from all the chommies. The drinking and dancing and flirting and drinking until they were shit-faced.

So that was it. She wasn’t sick – she just had the mother of all hangovers. After the father of all beach bashes. She sat a while longer, relieved, her mood a little lighter, gently jiggling the sand out of her hair and watching it fall to the floor. She still could barely move, suffering bouts of nausea, and her head pounding. But at least it was only a hangover, nothing a couple of tablets and sleep wouldn’t cure.

It was so awesome to be at a varsity near the sea, unlike at home where there was nowhere to go except the mall. A whole lot of excited first-years, and some cool second- and third-year guys, had all arranged transport and gone to the beach for sundowners late afternoon, and then? She remembered it all up to when the sun had started setting red over the sea, with the party in full swing, but afterwards …what had happened?

Eventually, she could ignore it no longer: she had to get to the loo. She lurched up, steadied herself for a second, stepped carefully over the vomit, and headed for her door.

***

Tell us what you think: Why can’t Dina remember all the events of the previous night?