(DISCONTINUED)

○ 3.9 :: Morning Routines (part 1) ○

OKAY SO THIS CHAPTER ISN'T FINISHED BUT MY DAD TOOK MY PHONE SO I WON'T BE ABLE TO WRITE FOR A WHILE AND I WANTED TO GET THIS UP IM SORRY

*

"Harry?"

"Mm?"

"I fúcking stink."

Harry burst into laughter.

"I'm serious," I complained.

His laughing quieted down as he shook his head at me. "You don't smell that bad."

"Aw, thanks, babe," I drawled sarcastically.

"I was kidding!"

"Well I wasn't," I glared. "I haven't showered in three days, and I feel gross."

Harry sighed. "How are you supposed to shower?"

I opened my mouth to make a sarcastic suggestion, then immediately closed it as I realized he was right. How the hell was I supposed to take a shower? I hadn't gotten out of this bed in four days. I had forced Harry to go take a shower yesterday, after we'd established that I was okay. Truthfully, it was so his hair could feel a little less icky when I ran my fingers through it, but he didn't know that. Harry, of course, was reluctant to leave me but I assured him that if anything happened the boys (who had arrived home from class) would look after me. In the end he'd got Liam to stay in the room with me, and he still made his shower less than five minutes long just in case.

"Do you think you could stand?" Harry asked, biting his bottom lip.

I swallowed at the subconcious action and turned away, staring at my legs - which had barely seen the light for three days. I wiggled my toes beneath the blanket. "I could try," I said uncertainly, throwing the covers off of my legs and shivering as the cool air hit my bare skin. With some difficulty and a lot of Harry's help, I had removed the jogging bottoms that I had previously been wearing - not the ones I was wearing when Des cut me open, as Harry had informed me that those were in fact soaked with blood, and had been thrown in the bin.

"You don't have to," he said quickly.

"Yeah, I do," I said bluntly. "I smell."

"You don't even smell!" Harry repeated, exasperation evident in his tone.

"Well, I don't trust you."

Harry frowned, dramatically clutching a hand to his chest. "I'm hurt, Pumpkin. Positively wounded. I don't think I could ever recover from that actually."

I crossed my arms over my chest (which felt rather stupid since I was lying down) and raised one eyebrow. "If I did smell, would you tell me?"

"Probably not," he grudgingly admitted.

"Well there we go," I chirped triumphantly. "Okay, I'm going to sit up now."

Harry shuffled closer, ready to help me if I needed it. I hesitated for a while, allowing a ridiculous fear to override me. What was I waiting for?

"You don't have to," Harry blurted.

"I'm literally just sitting up, Harry," I said, nonchalantly rolling my eyes - though I think we both knew the words were directed at myself, too.

"Okay," he mumbled.

"Okay," I repeated, placing my palms flat on the mattress and taking a deep breath to brace myself. 1... 2... "Shit," I hissed. It didn't matter how slow I went; the pain was still there, burning and insistent.

"Kat," Harry called worriedly.

I pushed his hands away. "No, no, I can do it."

And for a while, it seemed I could. I was getting there - extremely slow, but I was getting there - using the little arm strength I had to gradually push myself into a sitting position, and it was going well. Apparently it was going a little too well, however, because I definitely hadn't been expecting more pain. Of course, it hurt, but as I got to a certain angle, the slow burning became a raging inferno, erupting across my stomach and up my side.