Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Nineteen

I woke the next morning to the sound of rain dripping from the gutter onto the sill of my bedroom window. The curtains were drawn but I could see grey light peaking through the edges.

I press my face into my pillow, my head thick and heavy, my eyes dry and prickly. I let myself breath deeply, listening to the dismal weather outside, until my ears pick up other sounds. A whirring from downstairs. From my years living in this old Victorian terrace, you grow accustomed to every sound that penetrates the thin walls. I instantly recognise it as my washing machine on a spin cycle.

I pull my face away from my cotton pillow case, peaking out from the security of my duvet and strain my hearing.

The low hum of music. Soft footsteps that sound as though they're walking from one end of the kitchen and back again.

With a lurch of sickness both from the emptiness of my alcohol tainted stomach, and the sort of nausea that comes from humiliation, the events of last night quickly roll into me.

Harry peeling me from my living room floor. Harry squashing us both into my shower to rinse the vomit from my hair; I can smell the watermelon fragranced shampoo all around me. Harry tucking me into bed and climbing in next to me.

I was drunk enough to pass out into a pool of misery on a cold hard floor but unfortunately not enough to have erased the events that followed from my memory.

I listen to his gentle sounds echoing through my house, knowing it's him down there, and like the coward that I am I keep myself tucked away in my dark room for as long as possible.

That is, until I suddenly realise what day it is and I whip my head around to my alarm clock.

10.14am. Shit.

My heart quickens, panic flooding me as I throw the blanket from me and stumble out of my room.

My head is swimming with the repercussion of drinking so much yesterday, but I fumble myself clumsily down the stairs, the stark light flooding in the thorough the mottled glass of my front door searing my blurry eyes.

When I push open my kitchen door, my suspicions are confirmed when I see Harry washing pots in my kitchen sink.

He's wearing a grey checked pair of my pyjama bottoms and his Elton John T-shirt that I'd found in the bottom of that box of records. When he turns to me upon me entering the room, he quickly wipes his sudsy hands off on a tea towel and pauses the music that he had playing through his phone on the work top.

"Hi."

I stare at him, then glance around at the state of my kitchen. There's a pile of laundry that I'd let pile up on my kitchen table now neatly folded in a wash basket, another load tumbling around in the washing machine. A cardboard box is on the ground next to my back door, full of empty glass bottles; the two bottles of vodka I'd sank back last night glaring at me. There's a faint smell of cleaning product emitting from all around us and I wonder where else he's scrubbed clean.

I swallow, my mouth dry and acidic, then turn to look back at him.

"We're late for work."

Harry leans against the counter, absentmindedly folding the tea towel he'd just dried his hands on.

"Riley-"