Hold Me Close

not on the sofa

I think I must have fallen asleep next to my toilet, because I wake up on the hard tiles in the morning feeling even worse than I did when I got home yesterday. My old Ajax jersey has ridden up, meaning when I lie back down in a more comfortable position, I hiss at the coldness of the floor touching my exposed skin. I shiver.

Yesterday was one disaster after another. The usual half an hour journey from the training centre took triple the amount of time, because my taxi driver decided he wanted to take a detour to a Mercadona on the other side of the city and pick up his groceries before dropping me at my destination. When I finally got home, I got into bed in my sweaty kit and cried, forgetting to change my tampon and leaking all over my white sheets. I showered eventually, but I must have blacked out after that, because I remember deciding whether or not I was actually going to be sick, and nothing more.

Am I hungry enough to move from here?

The bathroom light has been on the whole night, so it's a miracle I had the sleep I did. I lift my hips up to check the state of the floor, finding exactly what I expected to be there. Red smeared across the grey tiles. Am I even wearing underwear?

Although most of the motivation to do normal hygiene things has escaped me, I ultimately decide that I should eat something. I stand up with great effort, finding my legs to be sore from the intensity of training in recent weeks, gripping the sink and letting go promptly when I see my hands have blood all over them. I don't have the energy to feel disgusted with myself.

My bag from training has been left open on my bed. I spare a glance at how dirty the sheets are, and carry on digging around in it to find those protein bars the nutritionist gave me to try out. The one yesterday tasted like I was eating cardboard, but surely the company won't have fucked up a simple chocolate flavour. It's not very nice, but it will do.

I discard the wrapper by simply letting go of it, watching as it falls to the floor. The toothbrush I stole from Alexia weeks ago is still at the bottom of my bag. I feel sick at the thought of using her toothbrush. Her saliva has been in my mouth. Gross.

Oh. Wait.

No, I actually do feel like I'm going to throw up.

I run back to the bathroom, returning to what feels like is going to be my new favourite place this week, head in the toilet. This jersey needs to be burned.

It's now midday.

I accidentally fell asleep beside the toilet again. I was sick when I woke up. I still haven't managed to get myself into the shower.

There is an incessant pounding in my head, like someone is hammering on my door. It doesn't stop, no matter how much water I chug. I remember the reason why I have spent the morning lying down is because of the cramps stabbing at me, doubling over when I stand up too straight in an attempt to reach the medicine cabinet.

The pounding stops momentarily, allowing me to crawl to my wardrobe and pull out a fresh pair of underwear, hastily shimmying them on so I can get back to my seat next to the toilet as quickly as possible.

"Fleur!" someone shouts, though I am sure it is my imagination. The pounding in my head begins to sound like someone is knocking on my door, until I realise that there is actually someone out there. "Fleur!" they shout again.

"Ja?" I croak in response, my throat burning. I don't think they hear me. I haul myself out of my bedroom and to the door, clutching onto the coat peg nailed beside it to keep me up while I unlock it. "Ja?" I try again, still with no response.

"Are you alright?" the voice asks, still very loud, from the other side of the door. I recognise it. Oh, it's Mapi. The woman sounds very Spanish.

Mapi sounds a little weird, but I don't think anything of it as I open the door and collapse into her arms. Strong arms hold me up, but when I catch sight of the tanned skin, I realise this is probably not who I thought it was.