A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(25) See Through

( MITCH )

When I wake up the next morning, I feel like absolute shit. Like I've been run over countless times by a truck, and then was in a wrestling match against the strongest person in the world. My head is pounding, pulse throbbing in my fingertips and in every pressure point on my body, and my sinuses hurt so bad I can't even move my face. Not to mention my chest and limbs ache like hell and my stomach is completely unsettled.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, and I stare up at the bare ceiling, not wanting to wake up Scott—because, if I get out of bed, I know he's definitely going to wake up.

Only in my fucked-up states of mind have I hysterically sobbed and whined and moaned and let people in on exactly how I'm feeling. Like literal shit every time. I wish it was over, I wish it could just all be over. Because it sucks, and how am I supposed to pursue a high-demanding career when my immune system is fucked-up and I should probably be quarantined for the rest of my sad little life.

Well.

When I'm so stuffed up that I can barely breathe, not to mention the elephant that feels like it's sitting on my chest, I carefully move the sheet off of my body, keeping my eyes glued on Scott's back. When he doesn't move, and I'm uncovered, I quietly lower myself onto the floor, and then sit on the cold hardwood, defeated.

Since January, we've been living in this 600-square foot condo, and I honestly don't know why we haven't moved out of it yet. I guess we've just been so busy that we haven't really even thought about it; we're rarely here, anyways.

Scott and I have been sharing a full-size bed, and so has Avi and Kevin,—and Kirstie and Olaf and Pascal, of course—since January, too. If it weren't for the utter smallness of the bedrooms, we would have probably gotten two beds. But it is what it is, I guess, and sharing beds for a couple hours a night is just the best we can do for now. I don't really mind it, though.

Since Scott hasn't moved, I take the opportunity to slowly crawl towards the bathroom—too weak to stand and walk. Once I'm in there, I hold onto the vanity, and pull myself up to get to the medicine cabinet; Ibuprofen will just have to work for now. I quickly down the maximum amount of pills, and then shakily lower myself back down to the floor.

The tile is cold and feels good against the clammy palms of my hands; I consider lying down on it and going back to sleep, but figure that would freak Scott out like no other. And, besides, I'm fucking tired of being sick all the time; I'm hoping the drugs will kick in before everyone else wakes up, and so no one will have to baby me today. So I won't have to hold everybody back today. Again.

Soon, the tile starts to get too cold, and then I'm shivering, but I still feel too weak to crawl back into bed and under the covers. Luckily, Scott left one of his sweatshirts hanging on the door handle, and I grab it, putting it on; although it's a little too big, it helps to trap some of the limited body heat that remains.

After a couple more minutes, I become impatient, and decide that the medicine just isn't going to work. I briefly consider taking more, but figure that, although this fucking sucks, I'm not going to OD because of it.

When I finally muster up the strength to stand up, I stop in my tracks when I see that Scott's awake. He notices me, and then rolls onto his side to face me, propping his head up on his hand. "Whatcha doin'?"

I shrug, trying to hide the fact that I'm leaning on the vanity for full support. "Nothing," I reply weakly, my voice a little deeper since it's morning. "I got up and I was kind of hot, so I sat on the cold bathroom floor." Not a total lie.

Confusion crosses Scott's face, but he doesn't comment about my excuse. Instead, he asks, "So, if you were hot, why are you wearing my sweatshirt, then?"