CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | rewriting

15: DON'T LOOK A DOG IN THE EYES

               Hours later, a groan from the bed announces Diwa awake. I tug my eyes from my phone screen for the first time since I opened it. Either she's too groggy to realise where she is or too hungover to care; Diwa pulls the duvet over her head like armour to protect her sleep a while longer.

When it clearly don't work, she shoves an arm from within the covers and searches blindly for her phone. She finds it on top of my dresser which doubles as a nightstand. Diwa types summat—a text, I assume—which takes much longer than it would if she were sober.

Honestly, with the way she were last night, I'm surprised she's conscious before noon.

Me, on the other hand? I didn't smoke or drink owt; I shouldn't feel like this. But there's an itch in my eye sockets, joined by a headache and nausea that already declare today is going to be spent in vague discomfort with no cure.

Once her message is sent, Diwa's eyes meet mine and flee instantly, darting to the sketches taped to my walls to cover up the sky-blue paint. They sweep across the clothes scattered around the room and land on the clutter of spray paint cans in the corner. Diwa scowls.

Well, maybe I would've tidied if I knew she were coming over!

...No, I wouldn't have.

Her focus finally lands on the locks on my door: a bolt, a door chain, and a latch guard. I've squeezed silicone into every gap so no one can slip an under-the-door tool in.

Diwa screws her eyes shut. From her expression, I assume she's begging God not to be murdered.

When she opens them again, they reluctantly find mine, corners creased in a grimace with crumbles of mascara. She opens her mouth, starts to speak, then jerks to the edge of the bed to scan the rug below me and changes track.

'You didn't sleep on the floor, did ya?'

'I've slept in worse places.'

Diwa's lips flatten. She peers through the dark to x-ray me, as though searching for bruises or broken bones.

A smile tugs at my mouth. 'It's fine. Swear down.' I sit up and shuffle back to lean against the dresser, slipping my phone under my thigh to focus fully on her. 'How shit are ya feeling?'

She drops onto the bed with a groan.

I snicker and Diwa slams the pillow at me. 'Do one!'

'No need for the strop.' My words are interlaced with laughter, which only becomes harder to restrain with the scowl twisting her expression. 'I've earned a bit of smugness after I practically saved your ungrateful arse.'

She casts me a genuine smile. 'Thank you.'

I look away. I ingest appreciation as well as bleach.

'Did you draw these?'

I snap around. Her phone is already in hand and she lights the torch to better see the sketch she peels from the wall. The page contains nowt but butterflies shredded in sharp teeth.

'Don't look at that!'

I snatch it from her and stuff it into my pocket.

Though her brows twitch, Diwa's attention has already shifted to the bed, also illuminated by her torch. 'Didn't take you for a floral sheets type of person,' she says.

'What am I supposed to have on em, bones?'

Diwa rolls her shoulders, stretches her neck, and changes the subject. 'I texted my parents I woke up early to get to the library.'