Broken String

XXVIII

Look. He's just going to have to get on with things, right? What choice does he have? I mean, he could choose to sit here on this couch and wallow in his misery all day, but what good is that going to do him? Or anyone else for that matter? So after a minute of self-pity he pries his eyes open again, picks up the remote control again and resumes his flicking through the channels. He settles on watching some stupid daytime cookery programme, trying his hardest to only think positive thoughts. So he looks at the screen as the ridiculously enthusiastic chef cook an equally ridiculously fancy omelette, and he stays there as the TV carries on with some building programme he's never seen before. In fact, he manages to sit calmly on the same spot in the couch until it's well into the afternoon. 
By which point he needs the toilet, though. It's so stupid, he's hardly even drunk anything today because he's not been able to get up and make anything to drink, but he really fucking needs the toilet anyway, and it's getting beyond the point of merely being uncomfortable. He should have gone when Brett was still here, but how was he to preempt that? He glances at the clock. It's almost three, and nobody's going to be home for a while still. His bladder twinges sharply and he heaves a deep sigh. Fuck it sideways, he's going to have to get himself there or his housemates are going to come home to a spectacle absolutely no one has requested. He pushes himself up with his right hand, wincing at the stabbing pain in his ankle, and he hangs on to the couch for dear life as he limps towards the bathroom. Two loose steps to get out of the living room and he can sort of hang on to the hallway wall. Okay. He's almost there. God, his bladder is killing him but he hangs on, walking slowly through the hallway and managing to make his way into the bathroom on time. He quickly yanks his sweats down - thank God he didn't wear jeans today -, drops himself onto the toilet seat and he can finally, finally let go.
 
"Ow!" he winces as he tries to get up again a minute later. "Fuck!" His hand twinges hard as it pushes on his knee and then his ankle seems to twist, just like it did this morning when he tried to get out of bed. He cries out in pain and he falls back down on the toilet. Helplessly.
"Fuck!" he cusses again.
What the hell will he do now? He already knows there's no way he's going to get be able to get up again now, not without help, let alone get himself back to the living room. Don't go over the threshold of pain. the doctor said. Yeah. Easy for her to say. But who can help him now? He's not got his phone, either. He left it on the couch without thinking. Does he try to crawl out of here on all fours? His hand throbs dully and he knows that there's no way. There's nothing for it, he'll just have to wait there until someone decides to come home. 
And that is when the tears finally start to fall. 
"Why is this happening to me?" he whispers as the angry sobs take over and he buries his face in his hands. The tears spill over his useless fingers, unable to pull him up, much less play the violin.
How did everything get so fucked up so quickly? 

A/N Sorry, sorry, I know it's a cliff hanger but I promise I love you all really <3
To make it up to you all I've written a sweet little chapter that seemed to fit the day, over on the one shot book! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend, sending you love and hugs from Europe!