The thought of Avery zigzagging a wheelchair through a packed hospital made her snort in amusement, the jolt of it giving her abused abdominal muscles a yank. Jesus, how much had she thrown up? And where? She had to press her eyes closed for a moment, trying to haul any memories up, but they were a cacophony of images and sounds and feelings, laughing and dancing and she'd been doing handstands, at one point; she could remember walking on her hands with someone's hands around her ankles. She remembered throwing up some more once she'd been in hospital, but not at the parade itself.
"'member bits?" she offered, her hand lifting to touch her throat, which might have felt like the most ravaged past of her (throat? Head? Stomach? Sick sensation that seemed to be oozing round under her skin? It was hard to tell what was the worst.) "Maybe? Throat feels... fucked. Maybe."
It was a nasty thought, someone shoving a tube down her throat while she tried to fight them off (cuz you would, right? No matter how wasted, someone tries to force a tube down your throat there's gonna be some slapping. If that'd happened, though, the memory hadn't stuck around.) A nasty thought, but here was an even worse one: "Guess we find out if they charge me for it... Haaaa," she let her head fall back into the stiff hospital pillow, a pained grimace of a smile on her face. "Ain't I fucked when that arrives?"