The pounding in her head felt like a thousand drums beating in unison.
Frida groaned, clutching her temples, the morning light streaming through her bedroom window intensifying the ache.
She hissed under her breath, her voice barely audible, as if even speaking would worsen the throbbing.
It was cold. Too cold. The kind of biting chill that seemed to seep into her bones, wrapping her in discomfort.
Shivering, she pulled the duvet off her bed and wrapped it around herself like armor, the soft fabric providing some small comfort against the icy morning.
Each step down the staircase felt like a battle. Her legs wobbled beneath her, the weakness making her feel fragile, breakable.
She moved sluggishly, her feet dragging against the floor with the weight of exhaustion. A zombie.
She was nothing more than a hungover zombie, stumbling her way through the ruins of her morning.
