Sickening - Narry

1: Flu season

You know those mornings that you wake up--maybe some day in November--that before you're thoroughly conscious, you have a sinking feeling that follows your first swallow? It's as though a boa constrictor has coiled itself around your neck throughout the night and just as your eyes open, it's gone--only you're left with the same feeling of constriction.

Well, that's how my morning began.

Waking up and just knowing that you're sick has got to be the worst feeling in the world, so of course it's the situation I find myself all too often.

Okay, maybe that is an over-statement. I'm honestly quite healthy and would even go as far as to say; in the best shape of my entire life. Just what's expected from any modern pop star.

In any case, I'm sick and that sucks.

However, I refuse to let this momentary illness become an impediment. I continue my morning routine as any other day; shower, have breakfast, brush my teeth, and get dressed. Leaving my quaint apartment, I snatch up my wallet and phone and throw on a black bomber jacket I leave by the door to help shield me from the November chill.

My door clicks shut behind me and I trot down the broad concrete steps that separate my stoop and the sidewalk outfront. There is a blacked-out Mercedes sedan waiting by the curb: my usual means of transportation. Thankfully the driver already had the engine on and the heat blowing when I shuffled into the car's backseat, trying to nonchalantly scrape the recently acquired gravel-mud mix from the bottom of my shoe on the plastic guard that forms the seal in the doorway.

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When the small car came to a stop outside of a towering glass structure in downtown London, I scanned the surrounding area for any overly-curious fans. I popped open my door, making a quick sliding motion through the gap I had formed and sliding the baseball cap I was wearing a bit lower as to shield my face from any passersby that may recognize me.

Reaching the prominent glass doors separating the skyscraper's lobby from the outside world, a small, peckish man grabbed for the handle and escorted me inside. A quick "Thanks...nice day" was enough to subdue any further conversation. (It also probably helped that my recent illness had caused me to speak with a low hoarse voice.)

I made my way across the open lobby area and around a corner, following the signs labeled "LIFT." Once in, I press the button signifying the thirty-seventh floor and step back, resting my backside on the small protruding rail encompassing the perimeter of the inside of the elevator. I let my head drift back, feeling the cool aluminum walls start to flatten the blonde hair I had quickly readied just an hour earlier.

After a couple quick conversations with some building staff, a couple embarrassing mistaken entrances, and a physical escort, I found myself in my appropriate conference room which overlooks the Thames just below through wrap-around floor-to-ceiling windows.

Present are Simon, Harry, Louis, Liam, some big-wig music types, marketers, producers, etc. I found my labeled chair, conveniently located directly across Harry, and took my seat.

"So nice of you to join us..." Simon said, followed by a soft sigh and a finger wag and the only person remaining standing at the head of the table. The man's face is familiar, but not to the point of name recognition. I slouch down into the fine leather seat and my mind wanders until my concentration is routed to my right pocket. I slide my phone out of my pocket and read the message that sits on my home screen:

Haz: "Feeling alright?"

I look up at the slightly younger boy, his glossy green eyes have a concerned look within them. It's as if they're saying, "Are you okay? What's wrong? How can I help?" I gaze back down at my phone and type...